


Free Coffee

by krisherdown



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-18
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krisherdown/pseuds/krisherdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie is in hiding during the suspension so ends up at Andy’s London home.  During this year's Wimbledon.  Yeah, that’s not asking for trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

It’s three days before Wimbledon and all Andy wants to do is relax in his home.  Questions have been buzzing around his head ever since he set foot in England, expectations higher than ever after winning the lead-up tournament on home soil.  
   
This is what he plays for, even if he knows it’s not quite the same being a Brit around Wimbledon time.  He wants to be a Grand Slam champion and, if this is the obstacle in his way, that’s what he must deal with.  
   
Andy has his crew around to try to forget what’s expected.  Kim is around to keep everything in line, the girlfriend in name who is aware of every little thing.  While the family is full of optimism and wanting to ignore the noise, she takes it all in, absorbing the details and determining what needs to be known.  
   
On this particular day, he’s been ignoring the phone’s ring as he was on the practice court.  Kim knows about these times, okay with simply leaving messages unless there’s an emergency.  An emergency leads to the use of the second cell phone, which has its own ringtone.  
   
It’s during the drive back to the flat when Andy checks the messages.  Nothing specifically mentioned, just that Kim doesn’t really know how to explain what’s going on but hopes he won’t be too mad when he gets home.  No use of the emergency line so it can’t be too horrible.  
   
When he arrives at the house, he doesn’t see Kim’s car there.  Tons of other cars, laptops and cameras set, but none belonging to anyone in the house.   
   
Andy is able to get inside with little incident this time.  He’s looking around to find what could be home that might bother him.  He expects the cars, has seen them all week so it’s not that.  His mum isn’t home so that’s not the issue.   
   
He is now in inspection mode, wondering if somebody has set up a prank.  Ross had seemed awfully insistent on getting Andy to stop by for dinner tonight.  But so far, the only odd thing is the lone bowl in the drying rack – Kim wouldn’t leave anything in the drying rack before leaving the house.  
   
The last room Andy checks is his bedroom.  By this time, Andy figures there’s nothing visually wrong with his home so maybe he let his guard down.  
   
When he sees the large lump where there should be flattened sheets, Andy lets out a yelp.  The top part of the blanket begins to move and he sees curly blond hair peek out from underneath.  Andy sees a stray tennis racket and whacks it against the foot of the bed, yelling, “This is not Goldilocks and the three fucking bears!  Get the hell up.”  
   
Andy looks next to the bed to find half a bottle of vodka and is tempted to smash it over the intruder’s head.  But that smell doesn’t come out of the room so easily so stops that impulse just in time.  Just the same, it's a sign that somehow Marat is involved and Andy doesn't like this one bit.  
  
"Not so loud."  Andy may not have seen the face but he isn't the least bit surprised by the French accent.  Or that his voice sounds like someone who'd drank half a bottle of vodka before passing out.  
  
"I will only say this one time.  Richard, wake up or else I'm blowing this whistle in your ear."  Not that he even had a whistle in his hand but that's just a minor detail.  
  
"Fine, fine, fine," Richie's arms swaying aimlessly about before he finally turns onto his back.  He tries for an innocent smile but Andy isn't fooled.  "Good afternoon, Andy."  
  
"What the hell are you doing here?  No, you know what, tell me why I shouldn't kill you or Marat."  Andy paces the room, muttering, "How did you even get in my house?"  
  
"I couldn't stay in France any longer.  I wanted to see you... well to be around the tour, without being a distraction _to_  the tour."  Richie sits up in the bed, his arms propping him upright.  Andy realizes that he hasn't actually crossed paths with Richie since news of the suspension hit.  In fact, Andy has a suspicion that Richie had been holed up in his home every day until this plan took flight.  
  
"Marat's idea?"  
  
Richie shrugs.  "He says it's how Mario copes so I figured it wasn't the worst of ideas."  At Andy's confused look, Richie cringes.  "I think I wasn't supposed to say that out loud."   
  
Andy shakes his head.  "I don't want to know.  Why _here_ in _my_ house?"  He points to the window.  "I can throw you out right now to the vultures.  In fact, I cannot think of a worse location for a hideout than _my house during Wimbledon!_ "  
  
"See, that's precisely the point.  You _can't_ throw me out because they will know immediately.  I spoke to Kim and she totally understood."  
  
"How the hell could you have explained this mess so that Kim would be _okay_ with it?"  
  
"Poor tortured soul.  I told her that I can help you relax."  
  
"I have a tennis player _stashed_ in my house.  How am I supposed to _relax?!_ "  Andy shuts his eyes, remembering that Marat is involved.  If Marat is involved, there's really only one answer to that question.  "Oh no.  I'm sorry.  You cannot be implying what I think..."  
  
"I'm all yours."  
  
Andy sighs as he finishes, "You are.  No.  I'm not..."  
  
"Please, Andy.  Just tell me what you want.  _Whatever_ you want."  Richie gets up out of bed, with a grace that shouldn't exist in his drunken state, and determinedly approaches.  Andy walks backwards until his back collides with a wall.  Richie hovers over and his hands rest on Andy's hips as he hisses, "You cannot resist me."  
  
"You cannot be serious.  Richie..."  The complaint is stopped by Richie's mouth over his and a hand wandering under his t-shirt to push their bodies closer.  Andy tries to force him away but his protest is weakening with every movement.  
  
When Richie finally breaks away enough to breathe, Andy stares, needing to study him carefully but everything is foggy from the kiss.  Andy has to get out of this room because this is clearly a mistake, a big drunken mistake on top of other mistakes which Richie will regret.  
  
It's a calmer tone when Richie continues, "Tell you what.  You made it to the quarters last year.  If you do not get as far this year, you have my permission to throw me out, shame me, blame me however you wish."  Desperation is creeping into Richie's voice, as if praying for any way so Andy can't throw him out.  
  
"I don't want you to do this.  You're not interested in me..."  
  
"I am throwing myself at you for the greater good of the sport.  This can work."  
  
Andy notices how Richie's grasp is getting stronger, afraid to let him go.  He can't throw the guy out, not now.  Finally, Andy says, "You do know that my mum lives at the other end of the house."  
  
"Kim said she'd deal with that."  
  
"Yeah, _that's_ a conversation I cannot picture."  
  
"Okay, so I'm pretty sure she won't say to your mother that the goal is to keep you from being so sexually repressed.  That would be weird."  
  
"You told _my girlfriend_ that?!"  
  
"No.  Marat did."  
  
* * * * *  
  
"I'm going to kill you," Andy says as a greeting when he arrives at Marat's door.  
  
Marat waves Andy into his apartment.  "Aw, you found my belated birthday gift.  Sorry it got here a bit late.  Shipping from France can be a bitch."  
  
"I'm sure.  What the fuck were you _thinking_?"  
  
"You need this as a way to survive that madness," pointing toward the exit.  
  
"If they find out..."  
  
"You know he's innocent, right?"  
  
"That's not the point.  It's a _famous tennis player_ stashed _in my house_!  With my mum and Kim around, no less.  How is everybody missing this?"  
  
"Kim doesn't mind."  
  
" _I_ mind!"  
  
"When is the last time you had sex?  Even just a quickie in the shower..."  
  
"I'm not discussing my sex life with you!"  
  
"Is there one to discuss?"  
  
"I fucking hate you."  
  
"Seriously, since Kim has your balls in a vise..."  At the murderous look, Marat retracts that last comment, "You're going to tell me you weren't enticed by Richie being in your bed?"  
  
Andy does a double take, surprised that Marat knew exactly where Richie had been found.  "That's not the point."  
  
"Yes, it was my idea but the truth is that he needs you as much as you need this.  Seriously."  
  
"Why didn't _you_ keep him?"  
  
"I already have one sad sack in my apartment.  Don't need another."  
  
"Wait.  Mario is _here_?"  
  
"No, of course not!  I meant Juan Carlos.  Bitter man he is.  But that's his regular mood."  Marat circles around Andy, giving an inspection while determining what to say.  "I am not at liberty to reveal where Mario is.  I will just say that person is quite happy with the arrangement."  
  
Andy rolls his eyes.  "Of course.  But I don't see..."  
  
"Can't you just enjoy what I've given you?  Stop questioning your good fortune.  Richie is pretty willing to go along with whatever you suggest."  
  
"First hand experience?"  
  
Marat looks toward the kitchen, hoping Juan Carlos can't hear.  "Funny you should phrase it that way.  His fingers are quite nimble..."  
  
"Oh shut up.  I will give a test run tonight.  If tomorrow's practice is a disaster, this is over."  
  
"No, it's not, but it's cute that you think you have any say in the matter."


	2. Types of Cuisine

The door closes at Marat’s apartment when Juan Carlos comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron that says 'Kiss the Chef'.  “Who was that?”

“Andy Murray. He’s not too pleased with my arranging.”

Juan Carlos narrows his stare. “I _told_ you after the disaster that was having Mario at Berdych’s place to fucking stop doing this. In fact, I see no point in having Mario stay with, of all people, _Andy Murray_.”

“He’s not! This is a different situation. Mario is in good hands. _Not_ Andy’s hands. Just leave it alone.”

Juan Carlos gives Marat a dirty look then turns back to the kitchen, focusing on the tomato sauce on the stove. “So, I’m afraid to ask, who _is_ with Murray?”

“Gasquet.”

The Spaniard shakes his head. “That is utterly amazing. You managed to convince someone with even bigger problems than Mario to start another round of house tag?”

“No, believe it or not, this is completely different. This arrangement is very specific to the person he’s paired with. There’s a history; they used to get along and there’s tension and…”

Juan Carlos cuts right to the point. “Which one did you hook up with?”

“Richie," Marat admits reluctantly, but then presses on. "That was while we were broken up… it was a casual fling… and we were usually both pretty drunk and loose-lipped. That’s in fact _why_ this is going to work.”

“Aw, you’re rambling _and_ feeling guilty. That’s amazing. Didn't know you were even capable of _either_ , much less both at the same time.”

“Is that sauce almost done?” Marat grins as he watches Juan Carlos try not to act superior, then mocks Juan Carlos’ tone to snap, “It must be difficult to gloat and cook at the same time.”

"Don't you worry about this. I was able to impress even an _Italian_ with this sauce."

"Bolelli?"

Juan Carlos shrugs. "You dabbled in French cuisine while I preferred Italian during that break."

Marat narrows his stare, trying to determine if Juan Carlos is playing games. When he gets a read, he declares, "You're lying. I am certain of it."

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. However, you do appear to be irritated with the thought so my work is done."

Marat shakes his head and storms off, muttering, “He’s probably never _talked_ to Simone in his _life_.”

The cook laughs heartily, knowing they won’t be eating dinner together but there will be fun later tonight.

* * * * *

After accepting the invite to have dinner at Ross' and basically avoiding as long as possible, Andy finally returns home, deciding it's not worth dodging this conversation any longer.

When Andy opens the bedroom door, he sees Richie lying on his side watching television. Seeing it’s at least safer than the first time, he enters the rest of the way in. Upon closer examination, it appears his viewing is _Bridget Jones’ Diary_. Oh dear. Maybe it isn't so safe after all.

Andy declares about the choice in program, “You are kidding, right?”

Richie answers by moving over to give Andy room to join him, in front of his view of the screen.

“Love-starved women chasing after womanizers while dorks with reindeer sweaters stand idly by getting walked over. This is supposed to be what inspires romance?” Andy sighs but does sit on the bed to slip off his sneakers.

“Such a cynic. Yeah, this is kind of cheesy but you cannot deny the fight between Daniel and Mark at the end makes the movie.”

“Don’t know. Never make it to that point before changing the channel.”

“I thought you were going to camp out in Kim’s car. Come on, enjoy the movie.” Andy notes that Richie hasn’t actually taken his eyes off the television since his arrival. Not sure if it’s because he loves the movie or is afraid to face Andy.

With that in mind, Andy obliges and lies flat on his back next to him, leaving enough space. Andy points out, “I am here because it is late and I would just rather fall asleep. This movie _will_ help with that.”

Several minutes pass, the warbling of "All By Myself" filling the room. When the song finishes, Richie abruptly says, “You could probably get anyone you want. Especially when you go to the States next month, since you wouldn’t have the tabloids there.”

“Drop it.”

“Fair enough. You _are_ in charge."

Andy nods but when he catches on this isn't about what Richie just said but rather what's supposed to happen tonight, he realizes it's time to admit. Andy focuses on the movie when he reveals, “Here’s the thing. I _really_ don’t know.”

Richie sits up on his elbow and stares down at Andy’s profile. “You’re kidding. You have no idea? That must be a lie.”

“It’s... I mean, I’m not a virgin but I really don’t have much experience. Not like you. Just you _being_ with Marat is probably experience beyond anything I’ve done.”

“I didn’t know you knew that,” Richie mutters. He didn’t expect Marat to disclose that information but it changes so much if Andy knows everything about that time. “Did he tell you the details?”

“No, it was just a random comment, either being wistful or ticking off Juan Carlos. I’m not sure.”

Richie nods but he does seem relieved for some reason. “Well, it wasn't much… a mistake really, a rather memorable mistake... but it led to this so I guess not too bad.”

“What I mean is that you may have to guide to start,” then cringes after saying that and buries his head in the pillow. “This is embarrassing.”

Richie presses closer, his arm crossing over Andy's chest so his hand rubs circles along the Brit's arm. He says soothingly, “The particulars of what happens here are between you and me. Don’t worry so much. It ages you.” He backs up, pressing down on Andy’s hip so Andy goes back to lying on his back.

Andy focuses on Richie for the first time since joining him on the bed. He gets lost in those eyes bearing down, wanting nothing more than to forget why there’s been distance between them since last fall. Andy raises his body off the bed and grabs onto Richie’s collar to kiss him.

Richie smiles against Andy’s mouth then pushes Andy back down and the kisses get more urgent. Andy can tell that Richie is holding back, keeping to his word about Andy controlling the situation. Which isn't a big deal since Andy feels as if he's been in the desert for days and this is the only water available.

"Please," Andy whimpers, hating that sound but he really doesn't want this to end as it has in the past with... well, he needs to forget about that experience right now. The fact is that he's never been in this position with Richie, never thought after everything that’s happened they’d ever end up in this position. His hands work on getting Richie's shirt unbuttoned and off.

At this gesture, Richie follows Andy's lead, pressing their bodies closer and working his fingers down Andy's back until they settle under the waistband. Andy can feel his own breath starting to get ragged and he's dangerously close way too quickly. As much as he wants to have that release, Andy breaks away from the kiss and collapses back on the bed.

Andy declares, "I think this is a bad idea." Richie rolls off Andy's body, his eyes focused on Andy's as he tries to read the situation. "There is so much wrong here and I can't forget." Andy slides off the bed, shaking his head as he stares down at Richie laid out on the bed.

"You are interested. _Very_ interested," Richie leers while looking down to make his point clear. "Why do you insist on _thinking_ so much?"

Andy counters, "If you'd _think_ just a little more often, you wouldn't be here in the first place." He doesn’t say it but the words “you’d be playing this week” seem to hang in that sentence.

Richie backs down quickly, narrowing his stare. "I see. Then, yes, you're right. Terrible, terrible idea." He focuses back on the movie, planting a fake smile as he pretends to enjoy a scene involving Bridget and her friends.

Andy lets out a sigh. He really doesn't want to get into this discussion any more than Richie does. "Fine. I'm sleeping on the couch."

* * * * *

Juan Carlos doesn't particularly trust Marat's judgment about any of this. So when he crosses paths with Andy the next day, Juan Carlos cannot resist trying to see if this is working. Well, it's not exactly crossing paths so much as dodging the group of crazies surrounding Andy.

Andy is fielding all kinds of questions, some about Wimbledon, some about the new roof, some they really have no business asking. It's not even a news conference, just a bunch of nosy British rags on his tail as he tries to get to the practice court.

While Andy is being cordial towards them, Juan Carlos wonders if he's imagining the bite in his voice. Then again, they _are_ irritating so he can understand if Andy's drone catches a sarcastic tone when discussing the traffic problems soon to plague the area.

Juan Carlos shrugs it off, then rushes to the other court to join Feliciano, his practice partner for today. He's keeping one eye on his court and the other on Andy and crew on the next court.

It turns out there's no need to actually _watch_ the other court because they (and the onlookers) are being loud enough to _hear_ all of it. More appropriately, Juan Carlos can hear how hard Andy is hitting the ball, the loud yells of frustration when he misses by an inch (which doesn't happen too often), the fast talking of others in the group as they excitedly go over the game plan for a certain opponent's style. Andy himself isn’t really talking – in fact, he looks irritated the entire time – but the rest of his crew do seem to be excited about his form.

Feliciano just keeps glancing from their court to Juan Carlos, trying to figure out why on earth the Spaniard cares about them. Juan Carlos knows better than to explain any of Marat's nonsense to Feliciano. Definitely _do not_ want to give Feliciano any of Marat’s ideas or else Fernando will kill Juan Carlos for putting those thoughts in his boyfriend’s pretty little head.

  
* * * * *

When Andy returns home, Kim is in the kitchen doing cleanup. She says cheerily, “Good evening. There's chicken in the fridge...”

While the practice could be deemed a success, Andy is still annoyed about the situation in the house. There’s no point in hiding the frustration he’s felt all day. “How could you agree with them?”

She turns away from the sink, tilting her head. “Just give this a chance.”

Andy shakes his head but decides to use a different tactic. “Mum must know something by now.”

“She believes Richie at his word about not wanting to be away from the tour. Which at least has some truth, as he’s been on his mobile since you left. Some of it was with lawyers, some with other players.”

Andy replies sarcastically, “Of course he is. Everyone on the tour must be _thrilled_ that Richie is around.”

Kim sighs loudly. “Give him some credit. You know it isn’t that way.”

“No, I _don’t_ know that. I’ve heard Marat’s outlandish theories and Richie is likely his star pupil. Well, him or Mario, I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Andy…”

“Kim,” Andy parrots then shakes his head, hating his voice sounding whiny. “They are tricking you into agreeing. Need I remind you that Richie and I don’t really talk to each other anymore?”

“When we met, you two were close friends. Your careers went at different speeds, creating distance. Obviously there’s a reason he wants to be _here_ with _you_. You can’t convince me this is only Marat playing matchmaker.” Kim kisses Andy’s cheek and walks out of the kitchen, calling out over her shoulder, “Plus, you need to get laid."

Andy lets out a loud sigh, then heads for the refrigerator to look for the leftover chicken. It’s while he’s inspecting other containers that he hears a rustling then a voice behind him. “You can’t avoid me for the entire tournament.”

“If you’re staying in my room, I’m sleeping on the couch. Maybe even in the gym.” Andy sets the containers of chicken and potatoes to the side, continuing his search.

“Come on, Andy. Let’s be reasonable here.” Richie is standing right behind him, hot breath on Andy’s ear. “It’s been too long since you’ve felt anyone against you. Your eyes glazed over from a simple kiss, ignoring the rest of what happened.”

“There was nothing simple about that kiss.”

Richie wraps his arms around the body in front of him and lays a kiss on Andy’s neck, “It _is_ that simple. You just insist on _making_ it complicated.”

Despite his better judgment, Andy leans back into Richie’s body. His voice sounds strangled when he pleads, “Please don’t do this to me. You know I can’t resist you… in fact, that’s the problem. I _need_ to resist you.”

"You really don't." Richie lets go of his grip just enough for Andy to turn around in his arms and face him. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Andy is shaking his head, needing to look away from the Frenchman before he ends up giving in to that soulful look.

"You promised Marat you'd give me a chance. So, how did practice go?" Richie’s tone clearly indicating that Juan Carlos gave his verdict and there’s no point in making up an answer. Andy rolls his eyes at Richie’s lousy attempt at playing dumb. "Stop trying to deny what you want."

There are things Andy would rather forget when it comes to Richie. He doesn't really want to discuss them when Richie is being so calm and certain that this is right. Andy traces his thumb along Richie's jaw until landing over his mouth, memorizing the contours because this is nothing but a short-term plan.

Richie moves them away from the refrigerator door, shutting away the blast of cold air, then pushes Andy against the counter. “This is what you’ve wanted.”

Andy shuts his eyes, wanting to ignore the voice in the back of his head that continues that sentence with "and I'm doing this for you." He knows Richie too well, that he is eager to please everyone, especially now that there are people he's let down too many times. The truth is that dig about thinking last night probably still bothers Richie but he’s refusing to start trouble. It is with this in mind that Andy says with determination, "I can't."

Richie backs away, giving a shrug. "I came down to make popcorn," grabbing the bag he'd left on the counter that caused the rustling sound. "Watching movies."

“Another Hugh Grant selection?” Richie is less than amused but doesn’t quite deny it either. Andy would put money on it being _Four Weddings and a Funeral_.

Andy nods as if there'd been an answer. "I have things to do," then takes the containers and heads for the back door. He’s about to exit, his hand on the doorknob, when he turns around and says, “I’m not throwing you out. If you want to leave, that’s fine, but otherwise, I will hold to the deal you offered. If I don’t make the quarters, you’re gone. Sound fair?”

Richie decides not to push his luck right now, simply saying, “Okay.” He is almost out of the room when he says over his shoulder, “It’s _Notting Hill_ , not _Four Weddings and a Funeral._ I _have_ limits.”

Andy waits until he’s sure Richie won’t return before he smiles at the remark. Richie can’t help being a hopeless romantic, even though this whole idea is rather creepy as well as sordid. It makes Andy consider returning to the bedroom later.


	3. Before the Start of the Matches (Avoiding)

It takes Andy some time but he eventually does make it back to the bedroom. When he arrives, _Notting Hill_ is stuck on the menu screen and Richie has fallen asleep.   
  
The thing that makes everything so weird is that Andy doesn’t quite know how to approach this situation. Sure, it sounds great to hear that the guy he had a crush on from junior days acting like a buffet platter, but it isn’t. Andy isn’t sure if Richie would understand that he’s at least some of the reason Andy is so distrustful of relationships in general.   
  
Andy shuts off the DVD player, then the television and decides this is the moment he’s going to take advantage of opportunity. Though he’s not so sure this was what Richie meant when he said Andy could have what he wants.   
  
* * * * *   
  
Richie is in the shower the next morning. He knows that Andy is on the other side of the door but he can't make out the words over the blast of water.   
  
Andy is doing this on purpose. Slipping into bed, snuggling up against him like a lost puppy. It wasn't a surprise to Richie to be alone when he woke up, since it's only the biggest tournament starting tomorrow and there's much to do, routines to get started. That makes sense.   
  
What is going on now doesn't. Andy has clearly interrupted his routine to have a conversation that he probably doesn't want Richie to participate in.   
  
The problem is that Andy didn't want to give in to Marat's plan and may now wish he hadn't even gone this far. Richie doesn't exactly blame him for trying; in fact, there needed to be apologies for past behavior if this is meant to go beyond this arrangement.   
  
Richie stops the water, wraps a towel around his waist and opens the bathroom door. Andy had just finished saying, "it's a possibility, I suppose," but stops upon realizing he is face to face with the problem.   
  
"I'm sorry. I couldn't hear you over the water." Richie leans against the door frame, amused that he's managed to completely fluster the Brit. Richie admits he wants to shock Andy even further by dropping the towel or slipping his tongue into Andy's agape mouth. He won't now because he can hear Andy's mom's voice at the other end of the house.   
  
In fact, Judy's voice is getting closer, insisting that Andy needs to get going if they want to get to the interviewer on time. That thaws Andy from his frozen state, muttering, "I have to go. I... probably won't be back until late so if... right."   
  
"I have calls to make." Richie enjoys how sounding so sure is working on wearing Andy's defenses down, even if the calls themselves he is anything but sure about.   
  
* * * * *   
  
When Marat sees the name pop up on his cellphone, he's got a wide smile on his face. Juan Carlos can already guess who it is but what he really wants is to eavesdrop on this conversation.   
  
"Hello Mario."   
  
"Why, yes. I know all about last week. Very nice work, indeed. I've never seen him happier."   
  
"He exceeded expectations at Roland Garros so I kind of doubt he wants to part with you."   
  
"You're welcome. Wha- Are you kidding? It's a good thing you know about law because that information was _quite_ useful. It helped detangle the mess a little."   
  
"You know the sports news so..."   
  
"Yeah, him. After all, you do know more about lawyers than Richie does. The facts are there."   
  
" _Definitely_ better off being in England than cooped up at home. Okay then. Tell him I hope he does well this week."   
  
Marat nods then closes his phone. Juan Carlos glares at him. "You fucking did that on purpose. When did Mario hang up on you?"   
  
" _'You're welcome'_?"   
  
"Bastard. It's not Soderling, is it?"   
  
Marat stares at Juan Carlos as if _he's_ the insane one. "Um, no. Exactly why would I want to help _him_?"   
  
"I don't know. There is no logical explanation for what he did at the French so I looked for _illogic_..."   
  
"I wouldn't be that cruel to Mario. In fact, I really don't want to think about what he does behind closed doors _at all._ It might involve a dungeon..."   
  
"Oh shut up."   
  
"Make me."   
  
* * * * *   
  
The questions Andy is facing are possibly more exhausting than playing a four-hour match. Nonetheless, there is an odd calm, as he’s not irritated by this madness as much as he was last year. Maybe it’s because he now realizes he belongs in these conversations regarding winning this title, instead of the wishful thinking the Brits had last year when the crowd carried him to the quarterfinals.   
  
When he returns to the house that night, Andy isn’t sure why he wants to dart right for his room and repeat what happened last night. So he enters and the situation is similar – he thinks the movie tonight is _Love Actually_ , but knows it's the other guy from _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the movie is modern-day. The point is that Richie has dozed off and Andy was more relaxed lying next to him than he’s been in a long time.   
  
Andy changes into an old t-shirt and worn-out shorts, turns to the bed ready to settle in and has a pair of brown eyes watching him.   
  
Richie has the grace to appear embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spy on you. I was waiting up, drifted off and thought I was back into the movie and, surprise, you’re standing there.”   
  
“I came in hoping to repeat last night,” Andy admits. “But now I’m not so sure.”   
  
“You don’t have to explain. Come here.” Andy sits on the edge of the bed, next to Richie’s feet but not looking his way. “I know I promised kinky sexual encounters but the offer did extend beyond that.”   
  
“That’s nice and all but I enjoyed the feel of your skin.”   
  
Andy says that in such a matter-of-fact tone that Richie almost doesn't catch what he really means. “You did?”   
  
“Yes. I think it probably tastes good too. Of course, salty because of sweat but this other, indescribable flavor that I’d want to savor.” Andy tilts his head, determined not to back down this time, before resting his hands around Richie’s bare ankles, pushing them forward so his knees rise up. Andy plants a kiss on Richie's knee, staring down. "Yeah, I believe so."   
  
Andy has let go of Richie's ankles, so Richie takes the opportunity to wrap one leg around to trap Andy in place. Richie says, "Is this your way of wanting a tasty treat before the start of the tournament?"   
  
"Stick with getting inspired by your romantic comedies instead of porn flicks."   
  
"Given this _situation_ is more fitting of porn flick, you might want to be careful with your wording."   
  
Andy lurches forward, hovering over Richie when he hisses out, "I don't want to be careful tonight," then lowers himself down and captures Richie by surprise with a soft kiss. Richie hesitantly wraps an arm around Andy as he stays in that slow rhythm, though not so sure either of them is going to last with their bodies so entwined. For that matter, Richie doesn't know if Andy is going to back away again and that has to be considered.   
  
Rather than voice that thought, Richie decides to work a different angle. He breaks away from Andy's mouth, brushing kisses along his cheek until he's able to whisper, "Give us a chance."   
  
Andy nods, afraid to interrupt. Richie's hand wanders under Andy's shirt but this is more about trying to be reassuring than any possible hookup. Just because Marat's plan implies this arrangement as sexual desires doesn't mean either have to follow that script.   
  
"Nothing sweet," Andy says with determination, then makes short work of Richie's t-shirt and lowers himself back down. Their mouths crush together in rushed kisses, the friction feeling so good even though there's just thin pieces of fabric separating them. Maybe because of being frustrated by the night before and not doing anything about it but this time Richie is the one who is desperately trying not to end this too soon.   
  
"Need you, just..."   
  
Andy breaks away, smirk planted on his face. "You know, technically, I could torture you even worse than yesterday."   
  
Richie glares at him. The sad part is that _technically_ Andy is right - and that, based on their history, Richie would likely deserve it. "You _did_ say nothing sweet so I guess I need to abide by that." Richie then realizes he can get Andy right back. "Then again, you were the one set in stone this morning, wondering if my towel would untie from my waist."   
  
Andy tries to be dismissive. "I've seen you naked. In the locker room." But he is still pressed into Richie's thigh and that part of his body indicates what he truly thinks of that.   
  
"True, but unlike those other times, you can indulge in all of your senses." Richie rises off the bed to kiss him, allowing Andy to slink back up Richie's body. Richie lets his hand slip to Andy's hip, debating whether to go lower.   
  
As a cue, Andy nods, muttering, "Please, Richie." Richie bucks up, then his fingers work under the waistband to feel Andy's dick, to find they're both very close. It doesn't take more than a few strokes for Andy to release, his moans captured by Richie's mouth. Richie keeps working his hand, until they've both let go and collapse from the wait.   
  
It takes about a minute for Andy to start to get up, nearly apologetic when he says, "I should..."   
  
Even though this was probably breaking the rules, Richie pulls him back down into a hug. "Don't go and please don't be sorry."   
  
* * * * *   
  
It's Day 1 of Wimbledon. Though none of them have matches today, that doesn't mean their minds aren't on other tennis players in the draw. Or something.   
  
"My plan has worked!" Marat announces as he and Juan Carlos are waiting in the lounge for a practice court. Marat's eyes are on the television monitor.   
  
Juan Carlos glances at the screen. Some British commentator is on. "Which plan? The one to get all the line judges drunk?"   
  
Marat's eyes widen. "No, but why didn't you say that sooner?" He shakes his head. "No, the campaign regarding getting Andy laid." The screen returns to an interview done the day before. "See, it wasn't so bad to stash Richie there after all!"   
  
"Could you seriously shut up? People aren't supposed to know about that."   
  
"Come on. What is the worst that can happen?"   
  
* * * * *   
  
Richie is surprisingly chipper today as he deals with the lawyers' questions. Andy even went out of his way to give a nice wake up kiss before starting his routine.   
  
Kim had shown up during lunchtime, apparently able to tell everything without Andy saying a word on the subject. She did have to sway Andy's mom in a different direction before she caught on, but it was a small price to pay, Kim said.   
  
In the back of his mind, however, Richie had known the bliss would not last. Marat thought he knew everything about the history but there may have been pieces that Richie... may have omitted. For his own health.   
  
Nonetheless, when the phone rings around three in the afternoon, Richie is taken by surprise.   
  
"Hello Richard. You'd better give me a good reason not to kill you."   
  
Richie cringes. The fatal flaw in the plan has been uncovered.


	4. Ready for the First Round

Marat was probably assuming he'd have at least a decent run after the surprising success from last year. Not to lose first round to an American who Marat towers over in every way possible. So that Marat chucks his cell phone at Juan Carlos en route to leaving the locker room, instead of breaking anything, was a bit of a surprise.  
  
Juan Carlos shakes his head in disbelief when he finds out the score. "If he'd stop planning everyone's social life and focus on his damn opponent instead of the retirement tour... idiot."  
  
Now Juan Carlos will likely have to suffer through days of Marat complaining about the clouds, the grass, the bad bounces. Marat is planning to stay in London for the long haul this time, since he has personal interest in both Dinara's and Andy's runs here. Or, maybe even Mario's housemate, since for all Juan Carlos knows, this could be an arrangement for Roger to get number 15. Although he doubts it's Roger, Marat _does_ have long-reaching power.  
  
Juan Carlos has a printout of the French Open draw, which he unfolds and inspects. Okay, so Berdych is out, obviously. Rafa, cross out, since he's recovering in Spain.  
  
Marat did hint the guy did better than expected at the French, but is not Soderling. So that clearly eliminates Novak.  
  
Novak's opponent that day, Kohlschreiber? He doubts Marat would continue to support an arrangement that also knocked Juan Carlos out of the French. But Marat's logic is iffy so... Question mark.  
  
Hmm, Del Potro. Definite possibilities there. Circle. No, star.  
  
Cilic? That would be so simple that he wouldn't put it past Marat to make the arrangement sound tawdry. He doesn't remember hearing anything regarding Marin at the French but, according to this, he did make the second week easily. Question mark.  
  
Verdasco? No, blitzed by Davydenko would not qualify. Cross Out.  
  
Roddick? Well, he didn't lose first round, so that _does_ exceed expectations. Plus, easy to convince. Circle. Two stars.  
  
There are a whole lot of marks on the draw by the time Juan Carlos' coach enters the locker room. He stuffs the paper back in his bag.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Richie stares blankly at the television. He's trying not to tune in to Andy's first round match so _Punch-Drunk Love_ is the alternative. He'd never heard of the film but thought he'd be okay with it because of the word _Love_ in the title, having classy Emily Watson as the lead, and guessing alcohol would be involved. But since Adam Sandler's character is prone to, well, punching and general rages, it is actually a horrible choice for Richie's mood right now.  
  
He feels this need to punch something right now. Probably himself because this is nobody's fault but his own, but that doesn't quite work. Andy has been using boxing as training and, if they stay in this house together long enough, will likely want to put those skills to good use.  
  
This means, logically, there is literally a punching bag in this house. As opposed to figuratively being a punching bag, which Richie knows he needs to stop being.  
  
In the back of his mind, Richie has always been a sucker for romance. He just hasn't really parlayed that into real-life experience. What he imagines happening and what has actually happened are two very different things.  
  
With such lofty expectations in his tennis game at such a young age came others similarly holding him to that level in his personal life. Andy may have had a crush on him back then, but he also never gave in to the hype regarding Richie. Well, until Richie may have began believing the hype himself and had in mind pursuing Roger Federer, brought on after surprising everyone by defeating the number 1 player when he wasn't really started in the pros yet.  
  
This is the kind of garbage that leads to phone calls like the one he received that he's trying to forget. Fortunately for him, the caller got interrupted before being able to unleash his anger at Richie. It is a conversation that will happen, can't be avoided.  
  
Just as the movie is over, noise fills the house. The happy commotion tells him the same as if he'd watched. Andy must have won his first round match.  
  
Richie tries to fall asleep through this, knowing Andy is too keyed up to enter the bedroom anytime soon, but he's anxious about everything. He now realizes why Marat gave him that bottle of vodka as a "housewarming" gift before coming to the house; he needs to calm the fuck down and not burden Andy.  
  
Andy had thrown the rest of that bottle out in the garbage. Except for a few bottles of wine (Kim's inventory, Richie believes), there really isn't any alcohol in the house. Just as well; Richie deserves to be tortured by Andy's happiness anyway.  
  
Richie pulls the covers over his head, staring at the wall. Tomorrow, he will need to do some investigating, maybe check if he's right about that punching bag and get a few shots in - not that he has the faintest clue what to do but nobody will be around judging his technique either.  
  
* * * * *  
  
It is a few hours later when Andy finally sneaks into the room. "Richie?" he whispers.  
  
He didn't really expect an answer, whether the Frenchman is awake or not.  
  
"I'm going to guess you weren't watching. Then again, you can't stand when I play well." Andy turns away and begins to change for bed. When he finishes, there's no change in the mound's position under the blanket. Andy glares defiantly at the bed, continuing, "It wasn't easy, never is in the first round, but it was a match of survival. I'm just glad everything has finally started and I didn't fall flat on my face for these people. The expectations are so high this year, you know?" Andy shakes his head, the last sentence sounded stupid to his ears. "Of course you know all about that. Well, knew. Right. Knew." He pulls up the blanket and crawls in behind Richie, his body pressing against his back. "I don't understand you. What were you _thinking,_ hanging around that club with that girl... No, I have no right to judge. Probably just needed someone who didn't know who you were for one night and it backfired. I wish you wouldn't hide. Not literally, uh, right. Forget it."  
  
Andy never notices that Richie hears every word. Richie waits until Andy is asleep before burying his face in the pillow.


	5. Preparations and the Second Round

Kim walks around the house, enjoying the peace and quiet. Andy was in training mode, his mother was dealing with meetings and there were few people outside the house.   
  
It isn't until she walks past the recreation room that she remembers she isn't actually alone in the house. She can hear the sound of someone hitting the punching bag.   
  
She stares up at the ceiling, as if she could see whether Richie is upstairs. The only times she's seen him outside of the bedroom are when he ventures into the kitchen. Logically, she should have figured he would at least make use of that room.   
  
Kim cautiously enters the room, initially a whisper when she says, "Hello?" When she realizes Richie really _is_ the one there utilizing the equipment, she makes her voice heard. "Richie?" She has seen Andy around that bag so many times that it startles her to see someone not quite adept with it.   
  
"What?" He loses his concentration just long enough to misjudge the speed and he has to weave away.   
  
"I think the bag is beating you."   
  
Richie tries to steady the bag before it hits him... again. When the bag finally stops moving, Richie wraps his arms around it, not so much worn out as needing a way not to directly face Kim.   
  
"I don't know the whole story, I'm guessing."   
  
"What story do you mean? I can tell you how I got that positive test... if you don't already know."   
  
"Not that. I mean about you and Andy."   
  
"Oh. Well, what makes you say that?"   
  
"I didn't think Jamie could despise _anyone_. Yet when Judy mentioned you to him, he was seething."   
  
"I know. He called me." Richie takes a deep breath, his forehead resting against the bag and shutting his eyes. "I don't know what to do about Andy. The plan hasn't really worked so far. I think Andy is afraid to deal with me... and I don't blame him for feeling that way. Jamie will get involved at some point but he's got his own matches to worry about."   
  
"Just so you know, he's very rarely acted as the protective older brother. Maybe because they're so close in age. For Jamie to react this way regarding you... I have to think there's no hope for any future with Andy if you don't at least plead your case to Jamie. Andy has a mind of his own, of course, but that really could be a dealbreaker."   
  
Richie lets go of the punching bag, hesitantly asking, "Do you seriously think I _have_ a future with Andy?"   
  
Kim shrugs. "Only one way to find out."   
  
* * * * *   
  
"You _desperately_ want to know," Mario teases as soon as he answers his cell phone.   
  
"How did you even know it was me?" Juan Carlos asks. "I'm using Marat's home phone."   
  
Another voice chimes in, "You're not going to get answers this way."   
  
Juan Carlos closes his eyes. "Of course. Hi, Marat. Why are you even there?"   
  
"I don't want to sour your play with my mood. So I'm spending time with Mario. He's enjoying today's matches _very much_."   
  
"Oh, you are such a jerk... Wait, do you mean that the person is playing _today_?" Juan Carlos searches for the remote and turns on the television. To his dismay, Maria Sharapova is in a struggle for her second round match. He's searching for the schedule of the day's matches.   
  
"You are so predictable," Marat says.   
  
"Marat, can I speak to just Mario for a second?"   
  
Mario mutters, "Get away," then the sound of someone being pushed. Juan Carlos imagines they're pantomiming their actions from this point and that Marat has reluctantly agreed to stay silent. "Yeah?"   
  
"How is your guy doing so far at Wimbledon?"   
  
"So far so good. He's liking the grass a lot this year."   
  
"Thank you, Mario." Then, as an added dig at Marat, Juan Carlos throws in a, "Ha!" for good measure before dropping the subject and making small talk.   
  
Once he hangs up, Juan Carlos gets out the French Open and now the Wimbledon bracket as well. Okay, so player exceeded expectations at the French and somehow (maybe Mario saw his form, as _he_ is very good on grass) anticipates success here. Clearly, the player hasn't lost yet or else Mario wouldn't be so chipper.   
  
Which means... okay, it _really_ isn't Feliciano. Oh, that was already crossed off because of the Fernando issue.   
  
Not Chardy, either, although it seemed unlikely he'd get past Roddick anyway.   
  
Cilic is playing tonight. Juan Carlos shakes his head. Marat _would_ make it that simple and mislead with every turn.   
  
* * * * *   
  
Richie would never claim that he's the best problem solver. He may have the tools but, much like his game, sometimes the wrong tool is used at the wrong time. That's the best way to describe what happened this evening that lead to where he is now: alone in this bedroom while Andy is down in the rec room, trying to destroy the punching bag that had been Richie’s enemy only hours before.   
  
Kim had told him Andy was coming home early. For once, he wouldn't be wiped out from practicing, having had a break for dinner with a member of his crew. When the idea came to Richie, he wanted to make sure he was alert. No romantic comedies this night, just leaving the tennis on in the background as Cilic and Querrey battled in their tight second round encounter.   
  
Richie heard Andy enter the house, chatting with Kim about some forfeit Miles lost. He made a decision at that point that he wasn’t going to avoid the subject. He shut the television off and did a check of his reflection. Not necessarily the best of days but better than most days in the last few months.   
  
“Good evening,” Andy said upon entering, then was startled to see Richie sitting up on the bed, both awake and not focused on a movie. The book was simply there as a distraction but it wasn’t open.   
  
“Good practice?”   
  
“Er, yeah. I feel ready for tomorrow night.” Andy had his hands on his hips and tilted his head. Since he wasn’t exhausted, Andy was able to see Richie clearer than he had since everything started. “What’s going on?”   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Okay, now the truth. You look like you want to say something to me.”   
  
“You don’t want me,” Richie declared. It was definitely _not_ the way he wanted to say it but once the words were out of his mouth, everything went downhill from there.   
  
It wasn’t immediately clear they were about to head down the path of no return, however. Andy said simply, “Excuse me?”   
  
“It’s the only logical explanation.”   
  
“There hasn’t been _logic_ since you agreed with Marat’s stupid program.”   
  
Richie stood up and stepped toward Andy. “I have tried to stay back and let you make the move. But I can’t do that, especially when you can’t face me.”   
  
Andy backed away until he ended up against the wall. He shook his head. “This can’t end well.”   
  
“You don’t want to talk _to me_ but you certainly can talk.” The idea had then been that, if Andy wasn’t going to take the initiative, Richie would. Richie had his hands on Andy’s waist, hoping to keep him still.   
  
Andy turned away from Richie’s glare, determining, “You were awake last night.”   
  
“Yeah. Are you mad at me, now that you know how I got suspended?”   
  
“No. Well, sort of… not only because of that. I suspected you weren’t really using but to hear the story… No, I had been having doubts regarding this,” gesturing around the room to indicate the arrangement, “and then went to talk to Jamie...” Richie let go immediately, aware Andy may have been tentative before but in fact, he was hiding that he was downright furious. “He wondered if you were only here because I’m now number three in the world.”   
  
Richie backed away, stricken by the blow. _“What?!_ No, not even…”   
  
Andy kept going, “Then I remembered your history. Roger, Marat, Rafa, Novak – right after winning the Australian, no less. I sense a pattern here.”   
  
“I was never with Rafa.” It was a useless defense but Andy rattling off the names made him sound worse. Novak made the move on _him_ right after winning the Australian, when Richie’s game was struggling.   
  
“You were interested in Rafa but he must have turned you down. What about Roddick? Huh? He’s a Grand Slam champ so therefore _exactly_ your type.”   
  
“Damn it. Andy, no. That’s not what this is about.”   
  
“I mean _of course_ Marat’s reasoning is sound,” Andy rolled his eyes. “But you don’t care if I win Wimbledon. The cruel irony is that you don’t really want to see me win _at all_.”   
  
This was what Richie had _thought_ was holding Andy back: the fight from the autumn. “Is this about last year? There were reasons…”   
  
“Yeah, that you lost first round at the US Open so you were too bitter to congratulate me for making the final. It would mean you’re not the Chosen One. Although that had been clear for awhile.”   
  
“I should have known that wasn’t over…”   
  
“You were… no, you _are_ … jealous.”   
  
“I was annoying then about my match, yes. But you really loved reminding me about _our_ match at Wimbledon! So you _finally_ beat me, big deal.”   
  
Andy countered, “I didn’t say all of that until after you were a dick about the US Open. You should have won our fucking match in straights but your mind wanders.”   
  
“You said that, let me phrase this right, Roger would no longer need me for any services?”   
  
Andy was not deterred from having words he once said in anger thrown back at him. “You have a type. I just didn’t _fit_ your type until now.”   
  
“You are right about one thing. This arrangement _is_ a terrible idea. You’re still a brat who has managed not to get laid despite my offerings. Hell, you were fortunate to get the handjob.”   
  
“How fucking _charitable_ of you! Maybe my mind isn’t on sex because I am focused on winning this damn title. Tennis – you know, something _you_ should have been focused on instead of hitting on some bimbo in a club because an injury was keeping you off the court. You want to fucking waste everything? That is not my problem.” Andy tried to look at Richie but couldn’t and stormed out the room, slamming the door shut as his feet pounded through the house.   
  
Richie can insist he doesn’t care what Andy thinks but that is a lie. He had agreed with Marat’s “solution” because he knew he had to clear the air with Andy first and being trapped in Andy’s room allowed that. At least now Richie is finally aware of where Andy stands.  
  
The problem is now that Richie trapped here, all he can do is think about what Andy said while waiting and seeing what’s next. It is pure torture.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Marat announces, “He’s not answering his phone,” as soon as Juan Carlos arrives home after winning his second round match. Marat is twirling the phone between his fingers, anxiously wanting to call again.   
  
“Who? Mario? Mystery Man? Did he finally lose?” Juan Carlos can't help but sound giddy for even a morsel of information.   
  
Marat says dismissively, “No, he won his second match. I mean Richie. Andy is back to being a grumpy pain in the ass and Richie hasn’t answered his phone the last two days.”   
  
Juan Carlos mutters, “That may be the smartest thing Richie has done.”   
  
“I just _know_ Richie fucked it up with the past arguments. I should have scripted the confrontation.”   
  
“Why do you care? Seriously, Marat. Did he tell you something during your drunken encounters that makes you think this is a good idea?”   
  
“I realize you’re being sarcastic, Juanqui, but yes, he actually _did_. Richie wants Andy but thinks that tricking him is the only way that can happen, after everything they’ve said and done.”   
  
Juan Carlos narrows his stare on Marat. Part of him wants to ask questions, the other really doesn’t want to get involved. The disinterested part wins out. “Come on. Mystery Man won, Andy is up two sets to none, Dina is winning and giving everyone else heart failure, hell _I_ fucking won. Let’s enjoy all that and ignore the drama that _you_ stirred up for one night.” Juan Carlos is about to leave the room when he realizes what Marat just said and turns back. “Hold on. Richie, the same guy who was Roger Federer’s pretty piece on the side for years, is interested in _Andy Murray_? Are we _sure_ he’s not on drugs?”


	6. Third Rounders

It is a good thing Kim knows just enough to stay on Richie’s side. No other reason Marat can think of in which she would willingly sneak him into the house. Kim is used to the crowds outside the house and he has to give her credit for having him blend in with two other guys, all wearing suits, derbies and sunglasses.  
  
She leads him up to the bedroom and knocks on the door, three taps. No reply. Kim looks to Marat. “Richie has been closed off since their fight.”  
  
Marat takes off he derby then looks down at the bag in his hand. “What about Andy?”  
  
“Riled up, needs to blow off steam so he’s on the practice court. Miles has reported how Andy has never served harder.”  
  
Marat nods, not at all surprised by that news. “I can handle him from here,” then bursts into the bedroom.  
  
Richie had been asleep but is jolted awake by the door slamming against the wall. Then he sees Marat and narrows his stare. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in?”  
  
“How did I get you in the house to begin with?” Marat says simply.  
  
“You sweet talked Kim and got me really drunk.” But Richie is inspecting Marat’s suit, figuring that may have played a role.  
  
Marat holds up a bottle of vodka, unsealed but still full. “So you already know the rest. I figured either you’d be all out by now or Andy would dump the rest because he’s afraid of the good stuff. You look like hell, by the way.”  
  
“Thanks.” Richie lets out a deep sigh but accepts the bottle, unscrewing the cap.  
  
“What the hell did you do?”  
  
“Why are you so sure _I_ did it?”  
  
Marat stares blankly. “Because you always do.”  
  
Richie shakes his head. “We’re too far gone.”  
  
“He’s still going on about Roger?”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s a little more than that. Andy essentially thinks I’m doing this _only_ becauseof his recent success,” then gestures to himself then Marat, not quite sure how to phrase the whole thing.  
  
It takes Marat a few seconds to catch on. “He thinks you’re a starfucker.”  
  
“Basically, yes.” Richie turns to face the wall, downing a large mouthful. “But it’s not about that. I’ve been horrible to him for so long and he never deserved any of it. I wasn’t the tennis prodigy to him, just a fellow player, but I was obsessed with the best. Too bad the closest I got to the best was whenever Roger invited me to join him and Mirka.”  
  
Marat closes his eyes, honestly not sure he wanted that visual of Roger’s sex life. “You need to get drunk. Badly. Because _that_ is just weird. Not so much that you were with them but that you kept going _back_ to them. _Then_ you go off on Andy and tell him exactly how you feel, tell him to stop belaboring the past and get the fuck over it so he enjoy his wonderful life.”  
  
“How about _you_ get drunk and _you_ tell Andy off? How about doing that right before his match, fucking him over and destroying _your_ grand plan to help his career?” Richie sets the bottle on the carpet then retreats back under the covers, pulling them over his head. His voice is muffled as he continues, “I genuinely want him to do well but he’s better off not dealing with me at all.”  
  
Marat grumbles, “You know, you are fortunate I’m not single or else I would be trying to pound you into the mattress.” Nonetheless, he sits down on the bed, hand resting on Richie’s back. “You’re right. You can’t tell Andy that way. He admits he can’t resist you, right? Why don’t you go along with that one instead? Since he can’t voice exactly what he wants from you, make it so you are even more enticing to him. Beyond anything you’ve done so far.”  
  
* * * * *  
  
Juan Carlos exclaims, “You told Richie _that_? Are you insane?” He’s lounging on the bed as Marat is changing out of a suit and tie while explaining the reason he’s wearing it.  
  
Marat shrugs. “It made sense, dammit.”  
  
“They clearly need to talk, not hide the issue with smoke and mirrors. Or nakedness and leather, as you’d prefer.”  
  
The Russian ponders that possibility. “While I think Richie would do that, I don’t think whips is exactly Andy’s kink.”  
  
Juan Carlos shudders, then returns his focus to the match on the television: Marin Cilic vs. Tommy Haas. “I don’t understand why Richie even listens to you.”  
  
“Why do you?”  
  
“The sex is good.”  
  
“See, you do understand.” Marat turns to the match. “How is it going?”  
  
Juan Carlos tries not to smile. Marat is pretending not to care about the result, even though at this point Juan Carlos knows. He is certain this is the match that Mario would care about. “Fourth set just started. Tommy won the first two, Marin won the third 6-1.”  
  
Marat nods, taking in the information. “Must be rough. Marin played a five setter against Querrey while Tommy finished early because of Llodra’s injury.”  
  
Juan Carlos raises an eyebrow at the knowledge Marat let slip but focuses on the other part. “Really? Hasi got lucky?”  
  
Marat shrugs. “Yeah. Reversal of fortune. Couldn’t happen to a better person.”  
  
“Mario is watching this match, isn’t he?”  
  
“He’s having trouble staying up late so I kind of doubt that...”  
  
“Yeah. Right. Well, whatever the hell Mario is doing, at least he’s not wearing the kid out. He seems ready for this to go to a fifth set.”  
  
“Proof that my ways do work.” Marat joins Juan Carlos in bed, snuggling under the blanket to watch the match. Juan Carlos kisses Marat on the forehead before Marat letts his hand rest on Juan Carlos’ knee, for now. “You need to wind down. I refuse to have you blame _me_ for wearing _you_ out and then losing to Gonzo tomorrow.”  
  
Juan Carlos settles against Marat’s shoulder, muttering sarcastically, “It’s nice to know you have such confidence in my abilities against a top 10 player.”  
  
While Marat enjoys the closeness, the fact Juan Carlos has no idea he picked Mario’s guy wrong makes Marat even happier.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Andy returns home from practice. While he would rather not deal with Richie at all, he realizes reluctantly it’s dumb to dodge him completely _in his own home_.  
  
When Andy walks into the bedroom, the first thing he notices is the music. Some slow jazz number is playing and Richie is lying down on the bed, eyes closed as if sleeping.  
  
The second thing he notices is that Richie is definitely _not_ asleep. He is humming along to the music. Dressed in a white dress shirt and a new pair of jeans, Richie clearly has a plan – for a change.  
  
Andy leans against the wall watching him. There’s no reason to ruin Richie’s tranquil mood. Andy hasn’t seen Richie cleaned up in what feels like a very long time. Richie had worn a faded t-shirt and either shorts or a ratty pair of jeans every day since he’s been in this house, probably even before that. But when Richie actually made even a little effort, Andy found him impossible to refuse.  
  
Richie stays with his tune for a few minutes, even though he has to be aware that the door opened. Finally, eyes still shut, he says softly, “Good evening, Andy.”  
  
“Hi. No movie tonight?”  
  
“Tonight’s selection was _While You Were Sleeping_. Sandra Bullock is a creepy stalker, not romantic. I had something else in mind.” Richie opens his eyes and sits up. His voice sounds so harmless when he speaks next but it’s the words themselves that are jarring. “Dance with me.”  
  
“Say what?”  
  
“Remember, the original point of this was for you to relax.” Richie gets up from the bed. “I can still do that. Please, Andy.” Richie cautiously approaches, his arms out in a peace offering.  
  
As a reply, Andy halfheartedly pushes himself off the wall and creeps closer until they’re at arm’s length.  
  
“Good start,” Richie says, placing his hands on Andy’s hips to bridge the rest of the gap. “I’m not saying we have to do much. Just sway to the beat.”  
  
Andy’s posture is initially rigid as Richie tries to get him to move back and forth to the music. It is in Andy’s head that Richie is playing the innocent act until moving on to more down and dirty measures.  
  
When several, equally slow in tempo, songs pass and all Richie has done is rest his forehead against Andy’s shoulder, Andy tries to relax and go along with the plan. Andy places a hand on Richie’s neck.  
  
Richie shifts his head at the gesture, looking up and straight into Andy’s eyes. His eyebrows scrunch up, apparently noticing Andy’s uncertainty. “Don’t fight this.”  
  
Andy shuts his eyes as he states what’s been lingering in his head for days. “I’m afraid of trusting you.”  
  
“No. You're just being defensive.”  
  
“Richard, I can’t forget. Why should I? This is a plan concocted by you and Marat to get me to fuck you… or is it you to fuck me? Either way _I’m_ the one who is screwed.”  
  
Richie furiously shakes his head. “ _Marat’s_ intentions are carnal. Pure and simple. Mine, no. I want you to be happy.”  
  
“That’s very interesting because you’ve made me anything but. Why don’t you just return to being Roger’s side dish?”  
  
Andy stumbles backwards. It takes a few seconds to realize that Richie shoved him away and Andy has successfully managed to enrage the normally easygoing Frenchman. Richie is trying not to shout but he’s backing toward the door, needing to get as far away from Andy as he can. “I cannot _believe_ you’re back on the Roger thing! He’s _your_ fucking rival, not mine. Frankly, I don’t _have_ a rival right now, though it would be nice for one to exist since that would mean I’m back on the tennis court. I am so sick of you dredging fucking Roger Federer up! I hope you lose next round to Troicki, tell everyone everything then throw me out so I can get the hell out of your life.”  
  
The door slams shut and Andy finds himself alone in the room, the faint sound of the saxophone filling the air. He sits down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest as he watches the door, hoping for answers. It does seem that Richie really has been trying to help the entire time but Andy can’t seem to stop fighting him.  
  
One thing Richie is right about is Andy needs to get past the past. He’s just not sure how he can do that.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kim watches from the living room couch as Richie storms past her and heads for the recreation room. She shakes her head then pulls out her cell phone, a call she’d been trying to hold out on.  
  
Hopefully, Richie and Andy can manage to not kill each other until after Andy’s third round match tomorrow night. She needs Middle Sunday to get her plan into action.


	7. Pushing for Information

It would be almost hilarious if Kim wasn't aware this is making Andy even _more_ closed off than before.  Still, that he and Richie are avoiding by being as far away from each other as possible while in the same house seems fitting of a bad situation comedy, at the very least.  
   
Even if Marat had been caught sneaking into the Murray house yesterday, the press’ questions would have been cordial.  It could easily be twisted into a counseling session: the great Grand Slam winner about to retire, aiding the younger generation.  That nothing related to the deal with Richie has leaked to the tabloids is practically a miracle.  
   
Kim tells Andy that she’ll meet him at the practice court later but there are errands that need doing.  Not even ten minutes after Andy is out the door, Kim hears the rec room door creak open and smiles brightly.  She assumes Richie will sneak out as soon as Andy is gone for the day; after all, Andy was complaining the other day about how that room is not comfortable for sleeping.  
   
With Richie not able to play, it allows Kim the opportunity to work on him today before her call can come through and assist tomorrow.  As soon as she can hear him padding through, she yells, “You’re eating _decent_ food today, Richard.  No more horrific boxed cereal for you.”  
   
Kim plants a wide smile on her face, enough to make Richie hate her guts as soon as he sees her.  He _does_ sit at the kitchen table, though, so he knows better than to second-guess.  
   
“Nice.  I thought that would only work on Andy.”  She begins cracking eggs into a bowl, then says, “You two don’t seem any closer than when this started.”  
   
“You’re probably right.”  Richie stares wistfully at the back door, wanting desperately to leave the house.  
   
Kim notices this and snaps, “Tough luck.  He has to lose before you can escape.  By the way, what the bloody hell _happened_ last night?”  
   
“He admitted he doesn’t trust me, then threw Roger’s name in my face _again_.  I shouldn’t have let him bait me.”  
   
“It’s more than that.  He thinks you have no respect for him, either as a player or a person, so you’re now, in his view, suddenly interested and that puts him on the defensive.”  
   
Richie stares at Kim, unable to reply because he’s absolutely shocked.  She focuses her attention on the eggs, letting him process that information.  It takes a few minutes for Richie to squeak out, “What?  I don’t _respect_ him?  How does he… I don’t understand.”  
   
“After that fight last year, Andy was such a pain in the ass.  I knew nothing about you two before so I was stunned to see him so offended.”  
   
Richie softly asks, “Is that when you found out he wasn’t into you?”  
   
“Oh no.  We’d already had that discussion regarding Gilles.  This was totally different.  Andy is driven crazy…”  
   
“Wait.  _What_ about Gilles?”  
   
Kim’s eyes widened.  “You didn’t know… oh, damn.”  
   
Richie wants to ask questions, not mad as much as curious about the details, but it’s really not the point now.  “It doesn’t matter.  Andy said he had a little experience.”  He chuckles lightly.  “Still, that’s a surprise.  Even knowing Andy hooked up with another player, Gillou is not one that would enter even top ten.  Not that there’s anything wrong with him, just that he and Jo are so linked together in my head.  Though it does explain why Andy is so tense around Jo.”  
   
Kim gives a slight smile, relieved it's not becoming an issue.  “Gilles was why I knew Andy and I would never work but _you_ were why I knew Gilles never really had a chance.”  She approaches the table, setting two plates of eggs and potatoes down.  “They’d already drifted apart. Andy said that Jo was back in the picture, but he said it as if he didn’t even _mind_.  Nothing made sense until after your argument.  _That_ was the passion that has never existed with anyone else.”  
   
“But I don’t respect him _as a player_?  Is he kidding?  He’s one of the best in the world!”  Richie shakes his head, then mutters under his breath, “Always acting as if he’s got a chip on his shoulder.  If it motivates him to make up excuses, like mentioning Roger all the time…"  Richie stops that sentence, noticing how bitter he sounds.  "This is insane.  I need to get out of here.  It would make everything easier for him.”  
   
“No," Kim interrupts.  "He’s actually playing well despite you.  You can’t leave _now_.  That would confirm that he’s correct.  That you don’t care – that you _never_ cared – about him.  However, if you really want the opportunity to prove him wrong, you will get a chance tomorrow.”  
   
“Because he’s got the day off?”  
   
“Andy is heading to his grandmother’s so between that and practice, he’ll be gone much of the day.  No, you will be visited by one Jamie Murray.  If you can face him, instead of being a coward and running away from your problems, you can deal with Andy."  She gives a false smile before saying in a chipper tone, "Enjoy your last cooked meal.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
Andy returns from his victory over Troicki, ready to annoy Richie about his relatively easy match.  Part of him figured that, despite the fight, Richie would return to the room that night.  He’d be asleep, having ignored tennis for another stupid romantic comedy, and they can resume the games.  
   
Richie isn't in the bedroom and, in fact, Kim says she isn't sure Richie will even be in the house the next morning.  That news hurts.  Of course Richie is likely just in the rec room, but that means Richie wants nothing to do with Andy and is just biding time until he can safely leave.  
   
Andy had pushed too hard and he is back in a familiar position.  Alone.  
   
* * * * *  
   
When Juan Carlos notices Marin waiting in the hotel lobby early on Middle Sunday, the Spaniard cannot resist asking questions.  “So, how’s Mario?”  Subtlety not exactly his forte since Marat has been teasing him in every way possible for over a week.  
   
The young man looks up slowly, stunned to hear the question being directed his way.  “How would I know?  I haven’t spoken to him in months.”  
   
“Come on.  I am aware Marat doesn’t want you to reveal this new advantage you have but I know.  I mean, you didn’t make it out of the first week but that was a very tough match against Haas…”  
   
Marin shakes his head, not interested in hearing praise about a losing effort right now.  “Safin?  What does he have to do anything?  Isn’t he out of the tournament?”  
   
“Marin, you don’t have to play this innocent act with me.  Mario was supposed to help you do well at Wimbledon.  I guess that _type_ of motivation can help a person…”  
   
“What _type_ of motivation?”  Marin’s eyes are wide as saucers, deciphering what Juan Carlos means.  “Are you talking about…” Marin pauses, then finishes in almost a whisper, “ _Marat’s_ way of motivating?”  
   
Juan Carlos is not in the mood to be coy, shouting, “Of course I mean that!”  
   
"Oh."  Marin stares down at his hands, wishing he had whatever answers Juan Carlos is looking for.  “I thought those were just rumors.  Marat has never even _spoken_ to me about anything beyond tennis.”  
   
Juan Carlos’ mood falters, realizing Marin has no idea what he’s talking about.  “You mean you have no interest in Mario?”  
   
“Well yeah, but he sees me as his little brother.”  Marin shrugs.  "But if you think he doesn't..."  
   
“Sorry about this.  Hope you’re enjoying England.”  Juan Carlos walks away from the confused Croat, shaking his head in disbelief as he declares, “Marat tricked me and now he must pay!”  
   
* * * * *  
   
The rec room may not be the most comfortable place to sleep but it doesn’t bother Richie nearly as much as the sound of someone pounding on the punching bag as a means to wake him.  It feels a lot like a hangover right now, though he knows he hasn’t touched that bottle of vodka since Marat left two days ago.  
   
He narrows his eyes on the moving bag, hating both it and the person hitting.  It takes a few minutes until he gets a response.  “Oh.  Good morning, Richard.”  
   
Richie doesn’t like the fake pleasantry any more than the wake-up call.  “Bon jour, Jamie,” he grumbles.  
  
“You know, I would have liked to sleep in but Kim insisted.”  Jamie hasn’t taken his focus away from the punching bag.  
   
“Same here.”  
   
“Well, you’re here so I guess that makes it a little better.  Now, give me a good reason why I shouldn't deck you."  
   
"I can't.  Take your best shot."  Richie stands up and holds his arms out.  
   
Jamie stops hitting the bag, staring at Richie carefully, then frowns.  "Are you serious?"  
   
"Yes, I am.  If this is what needs to happen, go ahead.  I deserve it for everything.  I've done nothing but horrible things to him over the years and you _should_ hate me."  
   
"So why are you trying for him?  Just give up, ignore whoever convinced you to stay here, and walk away from my brother."  
   
"Do you realize I'm dealing with a drug suspension right now?  It kills me that a brief lapse in judgment could cost me everything.  But, worse, it's given me time to think about everything that's happened involving Andy.  That's enough to make me want to drown myself.  I thought I still had something with Roger, which makes me a delusional fool since I already knew Mirka was pregnant and they were talking wedding plans, so I went out one night to forget and kissed the wrong person.  I've been so hurtful to Andy all this time yet, sadly, he's the one who can see me.  He's the only one who likes what he sees."  Richie stares at the floor mat, shaking his head.  "Do what you want.  It doesn't matter."  
   
The room stays silent.  Richie can't bear to see if Jamie believes him or not.  After a few minutes of silence, Richie snaps, "What are you waiting for, Jamie?  Hit me!"  
   
Finally, Jamie softly says, "Have you told Andy?"  Richie shakes his head, head still down.  Jamie walks toward Richie, pushing Richie's arms down, then declares, "You should.  For yourself."  
   
* * * * *  
   
Meanwhile, Marat gets a jolt from a loud banging on his door.  Juan Carlos had left a clipped message last night, informing that he may have led Marin to ruin Mario’s bliss.  But since Marat hasn’t gotten a call from Mario, he’s not overly concerned.  That means that neither Marin nor Juan Carlos has found Mario's location.  
   
Marat trudges over to the door and is shocked to find Andy there.  Andy works his way in, stating, “We need to talk.”  
   
“ _We?_ ”  Marat looks around, making sure there’s nobody else in his hotel room.  “Are you kidding?”  
   
“I need someone who doesn’t think storing a tennis player in another player’s house makes _me_ sound insane.  Is Juan Carlos gone?  I don’t want to give him an advantage should we face each other in the quarters.”  
   
Marat needs to be careful here.  Andy is wound even tighter than usual.  So he deliberately takes his time before answering, “He’s hanging out with Verdasco.  I was just watching the recording of yesterday’s matches.”  
   
Andy takes a deep breath, realizing he needs to calm down, then inquires, “Mario’s man still in the tournament?”  
   
“Yes indeed.  See, this is why you shouldn’t fight my ways.  They do work.  Especially given you’re playing Stan tomorrow.  He is _tough_ , plus has the power of Roger.”  
   
Andy rolls his eyes.  “Of course he does.  _Roger’s_ abilities light up _everyone_ he touches.”  
   
Marat raises an eyebrow, surprised by the sarcastic tone.  Of course Marat knows that Roger and Andy are rivals on the court but this doesn't sound like a tennis issue.  “Don’t like Roger?”  
   
“No, I don’t."  Andy glances around the hotel room, then asks, "Has Richie told you about his past relationship with him?”  
   
“I know there _is_ one.  Common knowledge.”  Marat leads Andy over to the couch.  “You appear to be very confused.  Here, stretch out and tell Dr. Safin all about it.”  Marat drags a desk chair over near the couch and parks himself down, notepad and pen in hand.  Andy warily sits on the edge of the couch.  “No.  Lay down.  I promise I won’t try anything.”  
   
“That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Andy says but does as told.  
   
“Okay, now close your eyes and relax.  Richie told me you believe this is going on only because you’re now an elite player.  It’s not about that, you even know it but refuse to believe.  Now, unless Richie did something I don’t know about…”  
   
Andy holds a hand up to get Marat to stop.  “Fine.”  He sighs loudly, then settles into the couch.  “Remember years ago when Roger was initially dominating the tour and was suddenly beaten by a teenager named Richie?”  Marat nods, even though Andy can’t see.  “Well, soon after that, Richie told me that he was invited to Roger’s house in Basel.  They were becoming closer friends and, of course, Richie would brag about everything Roger could do.  It was pretty cool at first, an up-and-comer having Roger take him under his wing.  There were already rumors that there was more going on but Richie always insisted to me it wasn’t true.  A few years pass and I’ve beaten Roger…”  
   
“Is this the first?  You’ve done that feat quite a few times.”  
   
“Yeah.  Here I think Richie will be impressed but he just shrugs and says that Roger has had a long season and I happened to be in the right place and right time.  I keep pushing, even getting to the point where I have him cornered in his hotel room and I make a move.” Andy turns his body into the cushion, shaking his head.  “I kissed him and he rejected me.  I shouldn’t have let my guard down, even for him…”  
   
Marat cuts him off.  “Yeah, that much I figured.  More importantly, Richie knows all about that.”  He doesn't believe for a second it's that teenage rejection that has set Andy off.  
   
“Richie doesn’t know what I saw later…  So a few weeks after that monumental screw-up, I beat Roger the second time.  I’ve just left the locker room afterwards when I realize I forgot my watch.  I return and I hear Roger’s voice in the shower…”  
   
A sudden burst of laughter escapes, Marat blurting out, “You didn’t!”  Marat wishes he had a tape recorder instead of a notepad because nobody is going to believe this conversation.  Then he realizes Andy would never allow that, thinking it would be sold to the highest bidder.  
   
“I wasn’t even sure who was kneeling in front of Roger at first.  Apparently, Roger _does_ call out the right name when someone’s giving him a blowjob.  I would have figured he’d be closing his eyes and imagining someone else.”  
   
“Richie has no idea you witnessed that.”  
   
“None.  He was fucking consoling _Roger_ after Roger lost to _me_!  That is… it’s stuck in my head.  Even though I officially found out about them soon after, it was too late.  It had twisted around in my head into some messed-up fantasy…”  
   
“You mean like imagining _you’re_ Roger and that Richie is giving _you_ the blowjob?”  
   
“No.”  Nonetheless, Andy has tensed up, turning further into the seat cushion.  Marat is reasonably sure the vision is in Andy's head right now.  “Just… he messed me up.  I want to move _on_ but I can’t.  I tried… it’s not worth wasting the energy on someone else when I can’t stop thinking about him.”  
   
Marat sits back in the chair, not sure what to do.  He realizes that this session could backfire on the original plan.  After all, Andy has to beat his next opponent or else everyone will find out Richie is in England.  Andy set those terms.  More importantly, Richie is too fragile to deal with those vultures – even if Marat now wonders if Richie deserves their wrath.  
   
Finally, Marat figures out what to say.  “Here’s what you do.  Beat Stan tomorrow, _then_ tell Richie about the fantasy.”  
   
Andy opens his eyes and shoots up into an upright position.  “Are you kidding?”  
   
“Remember what Richie told you on the first day?  He will do whatever you want.”  
   
“What does that have to with anything?  I cannot believe you took everything I said and are using the smuttiest detail to achieve your purpose!”  
   
“You need to tell him.  You cannot change what’s already done.  Richie fucked up and he knows what he did, even if he’s unaware that you know what he did.”  Marat blinks quickly then shakes his head before he thinks about what he said.  “If you want to move past this image, he needs to hear about it.  Maybe he’ll actually live it out, maybe he can’t.  Maybe you’ll find out that he’s sorry and will leave you alone.  My role is officially over tomorrow night because I cannot pick sides now that Juanqui has a real chance.  So, whether you win or lose, stop using me as an excuse."   
 


	8. Are You Really Here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably helps to find the song mentioned when reading this chapter: “If You Want Me” from the Once soundtrack (there’s also a spoiler regarding that movie) .

A few hours after his conversation with Jamie, Richie decides to return to Andy’s bedroom. The bed is easier to sleep on plus there’s the television. He’s flipping through stations but there’s little on, not even the romantic comedies he’s been favoring lately.  
   
That leads him to check out Andy’s movie collection. One action flick after another pass through his fingers. _The Transporter_ does not really capture his attention but at least it’s one he hasn’t seen on airplane flights. As he’s about to settle for that, a blank case sticking out from under a pile of papers catches his eye. Richie looks at the case carefully before finally opening it to find a movie called _Once_.  
   
Richie cannot help but laugh. Of course Andy would hide the one movie that didn’t fit with the others. Richie had never seen the movie but remembers Roger and Mirka talking about it. Having nothing better to do, Richie pops the film into the DVD player and lies back on the bed.  
   
About a half hour into the movie, Richie is sitting on the edge of the bed and doesn’t even hear the door open. Andy stands at the door, hearing the song “If You Want Me” and having no idea what to say.  
   
Richie pauses the film, watching Andy standing there fidgeting with a button. Andy was definitely not expecting anyone to be in his room this time, as he has his dress shirt half unbuttoned and tie undone. Between the film and the clothes, it’s as if Richie is seeing a different person.  
   
Then Richie remembers whom he’s dealing with and breaks out into a sly smile. “It figures you’d have this one buried,” pointing to the movie.  
   
Not missing a beat, Andy counters, “Yeah, you’re attracted to that kind of dreck. Where did you find that?”  
   
“Under junk mail. Join me?”  
   
Andy is wavering about giving in, glancing from Richie to the television. Richie stands up, deciding to make the decision for him. It takes two long strides to reach Andy, then a quick move to grab onto the loose ends of Andy’s tie and lead him over to the bed. Although Richie would rather pull Andy close and surprise him with a hot and heavy makeout session, he only has them sitting next to each other.  
   
When Andy realizes Richie is truly only interested in the movie, he says, “I’m laying down then. Can you go back one chapter?” Andy stretches out behind Richie, who’s still positioned at the edge of the bed, and kicks off his shoes before settling in.  
   
Richie does as told, uncertain as to why.   He assumes Andy is going to watch along, but Andy’s eyes are closed and he’s actually singing along. Richie isn’t sure which show he should watch.  
   
Eventually, he settles on Andy. Although Richie had never known the song, he can tell Andy has memorized every word. Of all songs, though, this one is a definite tease – _if you want me, satisfy me?_ – Richie wonders if this is a sick joke. The longer he watches, however, the less likely that seems to be the case.  
   
When the song trails off, Andy has his eyes shut tighter as he says, “I thought you’d be gone.”  
   
“Changed my mind.” Richie leans over to whisper, “Good thing. I would have missed this.”  
   
Andy opens his eyes, glancing warily at him. “What? Finding out I own _one_ movie that doesn’t involve an explosion?”  
   
Richie bites his lip to keep from giving the real answer: that he wants nothing more than to rid Andy of the rest of his suit. Instead he says, “Well, that there’s a bit of a romantic side to you. What drew you to this movie?”  
   
“Not sure. But it’s not the picture perfect happily ever after. Much like real life.”  
   
“What?” Richie glances at the screen. “But it’s… they’re so sweet together!”  
   
Andy chuckles, bitterness in his voice when he says, “Keep watching, Romeo. Move,” then yanks hard on Richie’s arm so they’re lying down together. Richie stays perfectly still, not sure what’s going on. He just knows that Andy is too close and the sudden mood change is startling.  
   
After a few minutes of watching, Andy asks, “You believe those movies? That everything can be wrapped up in a neat bow?”  
   
“It’s better than reality.” Richie turns his body completely away from Andy. “Reality is wasting years of your life on a guy who never takes you seriously.” Richie closes his eyes and raises his knees to his chest, realizing too late that Andy could take that as another slight. “That didn’t come out right. I know…”  
   
He is interrupted by a hand pushing him on his back then a kiss on the forehead. After the kiss, Andy hovers over Richie and softly says, “I am sorry. I wish I didn’t know either. I prefer to assume there were no feelings involved when it came to you with Roger.”  
   
Richie opens his eyes, wanting to say it hurts more what Andy _thinks_ of what he’s done as opposed to what Roger really did. But seeing those eyes, sadness in them that _he_ mostly caused, Richie wants nothing more than to bring Andy down into his arms and profusely apologize. The thing is he can’t tell where Andy stands at this point; he opts for levity to get out of this situation. “Marat is going to be so disappointed to find out he couldn’t get you laid.”  
   
Andy rolls his eyes and playfully hits Richie in the arm, then gets serious. “I do need to talk to you about that. After tomorrow’s match, win or lose.” Although it seems that Andy doesn’t want to get into this right now, he does settle back down to focus on the movie.  
   
The tranquility is soon interrupted by Richie’s cell phone. Richie forgets to check the caller ID and barely has time to say a greeting when the person starts talking. “Hi Richie. I want to beat Marat at his own game and I realized I haven’t used all my resources.”  
   
Richie laughs. He had known that Marat would have fun teasing his boyfriend about Mario but that it’s still going on was quite remarkable. “One moment.” He covers over the phone to whisper to Andy, “Juan Carlos is still looking for Mario.”  
   
Andy smiles, enjoying the mischievous side. “Well, Mario’s doing a very good job. Marat told me his guy is still in the tournament.”  
   
Richie nods. He actually does know the location, mainly because Marat let it slip when convincing him to stay at Andy’s in the first place. So he decides to have some fun. “What do you need me for?”  
   
“Well, I was going to ask you for someone’s phone number but maybe I should determine what you know first. Do you have Mario’s location?”  
   
Richie settles in on the bed, wanting to give this his complete attention. “It sounds so official when you say it.”   
   
“Yeah, you talk like someone who’s been influenced by Safin. Fucking tease.”  
   
“How far have you gotten?” Richie suddenly says in a giggly voice, “Cut it out, Andy.”   
   
Andy holds his hands up in the air and throws Richie a confused look, whispering, “What are you doing?”  
   
Richie covers the phone. “Please? Let’s have fun with the Juanqui.”  
   
Andy mutters, “Yeah, spoken like a person who really did hook up with Safin. What do you want from me?”  
   
“Play along.” He returns to the phone call. “I’m sorry about that, Juan Carlos. I’ve been _so busy_ over here.”  
   
Juan Carlos lets out a loud sigh. “Anyway, so I’ve got it in my head that Marat is screwing around here. He had a visitor this morning and has been acting strange.”  
   
“Just because he had a visitor does not mean he’s not cheating on you,” Richie assures, but he’s watching Andy’s hand creep up his thigh and is more interested in their game.  
   
“Then why be so secretive?”  
   
“Um, he’s secretive about his visitor because…” Richie starts, trying to think of a good lie.  
   
Andy calls out a reply, not sure how well he can be heard on Juan Carlos’ end. “I was the one there. He was giving me advice which I was _trying_ to carry out before you called. Now, I think he said the best way to tie someone to the bed is…”  
   
“Wow, you gave Murray a sense of humor. Nice one, Gasquet. No, I didn’t think he had sex. I think Mario is in Gilles Simon’s hotel room. He’s my opponent tomorrow so that would be a conflict of interest.”  
   
“Gillou?” Richie raises an eyebrow at Andy, who gives him a deadly stare. “I suppose but he’s committed to Tsonga. Now, if Mario is participating in a two-for-one deal, it’s possible. But Gilles is a fiery guy, very hyperactive like a lost puppy. More likely to be the one _giving_ than receiving, so it would have to be Jo’s idea. Ow! Hold on,” setting the phone down.  
   
Andy pretends to be innocent, even though he just slapped Richie’s thigh quite hard before resuming the teasing touches. Richie startles Andy by turning the tables, tackling and then pinning him down. Richie’s weight is pressed hard against Andy before backing up and straddling him.  
   
“Bad boy,” Richie growls, grabbing hold of both ends of the tie in one hand, then reaches for the phone. “This one is being disobedient. I don’t think Gilles is in need of Marat’s services.” Andy shakes his head in agreement.  
   
“Yeah, it doesn’t really add up. Even thinking about it, the facts don’t fit. It’s not a threesome. I’m just being paranoid. Thanks Richie,” then hangs up.  
   
Richie throws the phone aside. Andy says, “Jo wouldn’t allow that.”  
   
“That’s why I said he was wrong. The last thing anyone needs to make him jealous. But _you_ probably like the idea.” Richie jerks his hand with the tie back, forcing Andy to sit up, then grabs the ends more securely so their mouths are tantalizingly close. He finishes in low sultry voice, “In fact, I think you love the idea of watching Gilles get someone off.”  
   
His reward for that is a fierce glare. If Richie had known about Andy hooking up with Gilles, he’d have utilized that information much sooner. Andy takes his time before replying, “He fit the requirements. He’s cute, speaks French, happened to catch me jacking off in the shower and offered to blow me.”  
   
“Is that all it takes? Well, if that’s the case…”  
                       
“You’re not cute,” Andy mumbles, but there’s sweat forming on his brow and he’s tensing up.  
   
Richie keeps his stare on him as he pushes Andy back down on the bed, then works on the remaining buttons of Andy’s dress shirt. “I would say it wouldn’t require much to finish you off today.” After the last button, Richie has his thumb on the buttonhole of Andy’s pants while his other fingers are stretched out, the heel of his hand against Andy’s hard cock. “Now I could solve your problem right here or you can run off to the bathroom.” The button slips out easily, Richie resting his thumb on the tab of the zipper.  
   
Andy shakes his head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”  
   
“Unless of course it’s the idea of Gilles sucking you that’s gotten you in this state. In which case, I will get out of your way. I’ve done that enough times.”  
   
“You know damn well that’s…”  
   
“Actually, I don’t. _Kim_ told me. Not you, not Gilles, not even Jo. For all I know, maybe you are truly in love with _him_ and have been fucking with _my_ head for the last week.” Richie’s voice cracks at the end of that sentence as he’s struggling to hold everything together. It’s not that Richie is jealous of Gilles so much as he can’t seem to get out of the way of his own mouth.  
   
Andy tilts his head, then moves Richie’s hand as he shyly asks, “Richie, you seriously need me to spell it out for you?”  
   
Richie continues, “I should expect it, given everything that’s happened. I would deserve that kind of mindfuck.”  
   
“Move back,” Andy sharply orders. Richie does so, allowing Andy to sit up. Andy rests a hand on Richie’s shoulder, then leans in to brush his lips softly over Richie’s and stays in place after. “I’m not imagining him now. I probably picked him because of the similarity, that’s true, but _you_ have always been the one. Don’t think you have to do anything, though, just because that was the original idea.” Richie furrows his brow as Andy stands up, grabbing a t-shirt and shorts thrown on the chair and purposely holding them in front of his crotch. “I would rather not do anything tonight. I want to make sure I survive tomorrow so you don’t have to deal with them,” pointing outside his window. “Please stay around until then.”  
   
Richie nods automatically then watches Andy leave the room. He is honestly not sure whether Andy has rejected him or has hope for a future.  
   
* * * * *  
   
Marat knows it’s wrong but the more frustrated he makes Juan Carlos, the happier he is. While he knows that Andy would benefit from releasing pent up sexual energy, Juan Carlos’ game benefits from being suppressed.   
   
Richie had texted Marat about how Juan Carlos had called and was trying to figure out if Mario was in the middle of a French sandwich. That made his day, especially since he knew the days were numbered.  
   
Juan Carlos is in the locker room by now so Marat knows it’s safe to make a pilgrimage to the hotel room. He knocks three times then a loud bang.  
   
Mario answers the door, wearing a bathrobe. “Good day, sir.”  
   
Marat notices the law books on the bed. “Does anyone know?”  
   
“Marin called. I think he believes you’re fixing me up with him. Please don’t. He’s a little brother to me. Plus, he’s going to hate that I’m helping the guy who beat him.”  
   
“It’s funny. Juan Carlos was convinced you were with him when I was watching that match. It never entered his mind that I was helping Tommy.”  
   
“Are you going to tell him the truth?”  
   
“He’s talking ménage a trois – with two French guys! No way. He’s so far away from the truth. I want to see if he tracks down Karlovic next.”  
   
Mario raises his eyebrows, horrified at the thought. “Just because we’re both Croatian does not make that even _remotely_ okay. I would rather stick with this one…”  
   
“I don’t want details. Just keep doing whatever you’re doing.”  
  



	9. Determination

“Hel-” Richie coughs, having been awakened by the phone. “Sorry. Hello.”  
   
“Very fucking funny, Richard.”  
   
Richie settles in under the blanket, glad to finally hear this voice. “Good morning, Tommy.”  
   
“So you’ve been in London all along?”  
   
“But of course. Where did you think I was?”  
  
“Roger’s top secret location, actually.”  
   
Richie straightens his posture, startled by the harshness of the blow. “Why would I be there?”  
   
Tommy is taken aback by Richie’s tone and is apologetic. “I don’t know. Just that you and Roger… I figured Marat came up with the idea of stashing a player because of you and Roger.”  
   
“ _What?!_ Exactly _what_ did Marat say to convince you to let Mario stay?”  
   
“Just that Roger is so calm and that you clearly had some influence…” Richie slumps down on the bed, staring blankly at the television. He knows that Tommy isn’t trying to be cruel – he is Roger’s friend but has been understanding regarding Richie. That doesn’t change the feeling of these words. “I mean I knew about you two of course but I never considered that you were such a help to his career.”  
   
“I’m not with Roger,” Richie says softly. “I certainly wouldn’t want to help him at this point.”  
   
“Yeah, I spoke to Roger. I know that now. Did you agree to Andy _Roddick_ but Marat pulled a bait and switch?”  
   
“Do I seem that stupid to you?”  
   
“Sorry.” Tommy then changes the subject. “Do you know that Mario had me playing guessing games involving your whereabouts?”  
   
Richie laughs, though it does sound hollow, having not yet recovered from the previous subject. “Really? I thought Marat was doing that to Juan Carlos regarding Mario.”  
   
“I assumed you were with Roger and that Mario was being a prick. Once I talked to Roger and realized that wasn’t the case, I had to pull out brackets to figure it out! The clues were your guy had his best run at the French this year and that he’s looking in fine form on grass. I really _did_ think you were with Roddick but that guy did not appreciate my questions about you.”  
   
“Mario and Marat are truly two of a kind. Even the wording. Juan Carlos was told his guy did better than expected at the French and in fine form on grass. _He_ might head to Roddick as well.”  
   
“He will assume everyone is crazy.”  
   
“He would be right.”    
   
“We need to head this off now. Keep the crazy within this group before it screws around with the entire tournament.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
“Juan Carlos?”  
   
Juan Carlos has just defeated Gilles Simon and is stunned to look up to see Mario, wearing a baseball cap, a baggy sweatshirt and shorts that seemed too short yet too big. He looked vaguely like someone he’d seen on the practice court, probably his new man’s clothes. “How did you get into the locker room?”  
   
“Marin left a gym bag behind. Or, at least, that’s what he told security when he called them.” He raises the brim of his cap. “They think I’m his cousin.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“I hear that Marat is using me to tease you. So typical.”  
   
“How do you… he’s been giving you play by play?”  
  
“Yeah. I guess he figured, why should I study when he can entertain me.”  
  
“Study?”  
   
Mario narrows his eyes. “What do you _think_ I’ve been doing in a hotel room all day?”  
   
Juan Carlos really wants to laugh in Mario’s face but tries to be polite yet skeptical instead.  “Honestly?”  
   
“Not _during_ the tournament! What am I, a sex slave?”  
   
“You’re _not_?”  
   
“No!” Mario is muttering obscenities in another language.  
   
Juan Carlos scrunches his face, trying to figure out what’s going on. “What language is that? Doesn’t sound Croatian.”  
   
“How would you…”  Mario lets out a deep sigh, then replies, “Goran.”  
   
“Yeah...” Juan Carlos is thinking and Mario stands still, hoping he’s just given his location away.  
   
Juan Carlos continues, “That is not English or Spanish, obviously. Not French, either, so Richie isn’t helping you.”  
   
“German. He curses a lot when he’s frustrated.”  
   
Frustrated. So not Roger at all. Juan Carlos sees several players enter the locker room at this point so he whispers, “Tommy?”  
   
Mario nods. “I’ve been helping him calm down. But he tried to fool me by using German. I told him that tricking me will not help him on the court. He’s gotten better.”  
   
Juan Carlos shakes his head. “So Marat, and by extension Richie, think that this is…” He whispers the end of the sentence, “a sexual release.”  
   
“As far as Marat is concerned, _everything_ is a sexual release. It wouldn’t take much to convince Richie, given… You are plotting revenge, aren’t you?”  
   
“You’d better believe it.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
Richie is glad Andy didn’t find the secondbottle of vodka because this day will only get worse from here. He needs to know his fate and time is going too slow. Andy is the last match, of course, so there’s a lot of waiting.  
   
If Richie had finished off his match against Andy at last year’s Wimbledon, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He can’t even say it mattered that it _was_ Andy on the other side of the net because he honestly didn’t pay the Brit any attention. The end result with that match was that Roger tracked Richie down, for once, and returned the favor.  
   
Roger made promises and Richie believed all of them, no matter how many times they were broken. Mirka was _supposed_ to be the manager who was friends with Roger but was dating him for appearances. She knew all about Richie, hell she _participated_ with thema few times.  
   
Still, Roger and Mirka are now actually the happily married instead of just acting. Roger is wonderfully perfect and now he has his stupid French Open title so he could officially be called the greatest of all time.  
   
The world gushes over Roger enough. Roger is supposed to be the great one. Well, that perfection is fake. Every hair has to be in place, every move has to be practiced thousands of times so that it _seems_ spontaneous. Richie imagines Roger standing in front of a mirror reciting victory speeches to ensure each sounds different.  
   
He is watching Dinara and Amelie’s match when the rain interrupts play, allowing everyone to finally see the unveiling of the roof. Richie settles in under the blanket, preparing for the delay. His arm reaches down for the bottle every so often to take another gulp.  
   
Andy is not perfect, far from it. Then again, Richie knows Andy in the unpolished version: the skinny kid with the clown hair who often says the wrong thing to the wrong people. The person today has definitely matured, both outside and in. Andy would like nothing more than for people to stop nagging him about the imperfections.  
   
Richie hasn’t been able to watch Andy play for the last few years. Andy says it’s because Richie can’t stand to see him succeed. It isn’t exactly that.  
   
Sometimes Richie still sees the kid, the one who would latch on and follow him around. It is difficult to compute that Andy may be younger but he’s already having a more successful career. An opponent underestimating Andy’s game is exactly the way he wins but Richie suspects it’s more about underestimating him as a person that’s the main obstacle.  
   
Andy deals much better with the pressure than Richie does – and he certainly now has _more_ of it to deal with. When the television is off, Richie can hear the commotion outside whenever a car pulls up to the driveway. He may be too far away to catch the words but he’s seen the exasperated look on Andy’s face when he wants to head for training and has to answer their questions instead.  
   
Marat had told Richie prior to dropping him off here that Andy’s biggest problem is being overly obsessed over things he can’t control. Richie does believe Marat is correct; why else would Andy still be interested in Richie after everything.   
   
Andy deserves better than this nonsense. As if there isn’t enough pressure from his nation, now his play determines whether he’ll have to handle the barrage of baggage from Richie’s mess.  
   
* * * * *  
   
Andy glares at the bottle of vodka then the sleeping, though more likely passed out, body under the covers. A sense of déjà vu, as this was exactly how this adventure started.  
   
Still, Andy grumbles, “It figures. You’ll probably claim to have watched, when reality is you had on _Never Been Kissed_ and switched back and forth during commercials to see if the scroll changed.”  
   
From under the blanket comes a muffled reply: “I’ve seen that movie too many times.”  
   
Andy rolls his eyes then replies sarcastically, “Good for you.”  
   
“I fell asleep after Dinara won so I only saw the fourth and fifth. Very impressive. Thought you were done after Stan broke back. Seemed like you were begging for some way to squeak it out. Guess your prayers was answered. Can’t get that from the commercial breaks.”  
   
On one hand, Andy realizes Richie is telling the truth. On the other, the words are slurring together.  “You’re still drunk.”  
   
“I’ve only been asleep about an hour so, yeah probably right. But you won so I guess I have time to recover.”  
   
It is at this point that Andy realizes Richie has yet to lower the blanket and that’s a bit worrisome. “Are you feeling okay? I mean beyond the drunkenness.”  
   
“I didn’t really help your game any but it’s good that you won. It is smart of you not to give in to my advances. You wouldn’t want to get involved.”  
   
Since Richie is refusing to show his face, Andy is taking advantage by changing clothes. “We do need to talk when you sober up. Until then, you would be better off not telling me what I should do.” As proof of that, Andy slips under the blanket and rests a hand on Richie’s shoulder to pull him close. “There’s something more going on and I am sick of the doubts.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
Andy enters the kitchen the next morning and immediately heads for the coffeemaker. Kim watches him from the table, puzzled. “Andy, what are you doing? I thought you were going for a run.”  
   
“Don’t tell anyone,” by ‘anyone’ including his family, she’s sure, “but Marat snuck liquor in.”  
   
“What would possess you to get drunk…”  She stops when she realizes the coffee isn’t for him. “Fine, I won’t tell. Did you talk to him?”  
   
“No. That’s what the coffee is for. Hopefully, he’ll wake up soon so I can finally deal with him when I return. He has no reason to stay at this point so I’ll arrange for him to leave if he wants… after.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
Richie stays perfectly still while Andy is rustling around the house. His eyes are open but his face is buried in the pillow, the world spinning when he sees even a little light. He has been wanting not to move since Andy joined him in bed.  Even now that Andy is out of the room, Richie is afraid to do anything until he’s really out of the house.  
   
His mood hadn’t been helped when Andy’s arm had traveled down, settling on Richie’s waist, by the time he’d fallen asleep last night. Andy also had been muttering words of encouragement in hopes Richie would react but he wouldn’t oblige. Besides, any movement probably would have ruined everything either because of the alcohol in his system or convincing Andy this is a dangerous move.  
   
Just as he begins to move the blanket, the door flies open, the breeze hitting him like a jolt. “Rise and shine,” Kim says too brightly, then drops a coaster and the coffee on the dresser before slamming the door shut. Soon after, from another end of the house, she announces, “I did your delivery,” then a murmured thanks from Andy.  
   
“He’s serious,” Richie mutters, but reluctantly rises and gladly accepts the coffee.  
   
* * * * *  
   
Tennis players are set in routines.  Even ones not currently playing.  This is the explanation for why Andy times a short run on the outside chance that Richie will drink that coffee and then immediately take his shower.  
  
Sure enough, he can hear the water running when he passes the bathroom. Andy opens the door quietly and enters.  
  
"Who is that?" Richie sounds alarmed. It takes a few seconds, apparently to calculate that he’d heard all three residents leave the house. “Marat, if that’s you, I swear…”  
   
"Still taking requests?"  
   
Richie stops the water and pops his head out.  “Er, yeah. Though I thought we were talking.”  
   
“We are. Turn the water back on.” Andy waves him to return to what he’s doing.  
   
"You thought of something?"  
   
"I almost pushed you back into the bathroom the other day, when you only had the towel on.  If my mum hadn't been calling...” Andy trails off, then goes a different direction.  "Go back to your shower and I'll continue."  
   
Richie appears confused but does as told, turning the knob back.  "What would you have done?" he shouts over the water.  
   
Now that Richie safely can’t see him, Andy sits down on the cold tile, knees against his chest and his forehead resting on his knee. "There was this dream I first had a few years ago.  I would wait for everyone else to leave, maybe you played the last match of the day, then stand at the opposite end of the shower, still in my tennis gear.  Just watching and waiting to see if you'd make a move.  I would figure that you wouldn't think I was worthy, for many reasons at that point in time.  You were the better player, everyone knew you were the next big thing, everyone wanted you.  I was just the skinny weird-looking kid who only caught everyone's attention during Wimbledon."  
   
"Andy..."  
   
"You already turned me down once at that point, big shot, so don't try to rewrite that bit of history."  
   
"I shouldn't have..."  
   
"Right now, I just want you to shut up because I need to finish."  The water beading on the tile is the only sound in the room.  "I wanted you to notice me.  Not as the kid you were friends with when it was convenient.   Notice _me_.  In the dream, you pull me under the water and I slip on the wet floor, ending up on my knees looking up at you.  From that position, you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen.  Pellets of water dripping down your naked body that is so close to my mouth that I try to reach out to bring you closer.  But you disappear."  Andy stares at the tile, deciding if he still wants to do what he had in mind before entering.  “I just wanted you to notice me… the way I saw Roger notice you after I beat him.”  
   
The water shuts off and Richie is muttering in French. His palm hits against the tile several times, each time harder than the last with a louder colorful phrase.  
   
“Richard?”  
   
Richie takes a deep breath. Even so, he sounds so small when he asks, “Are you saying that you witnessed me giving Roger a blowjob?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
When Richie returns to talking in muffled French to himself, Andy finally looks up.  He can see a faint silhouette from the shower door, appearing as a ball on the floor. It is several minutes before Richie says in English, “Yet you had _that_ dream? Are you a masochist or just delusional?”  
   
“That’s why I couldn’t, no can’t, really accept your offer. I don’t want you to fulfill my wishes. I want you to see you don’t need to do that. You can hide from the truth for only so long. No amount of distraction will change the fact you are in a serious jam. Forget about the suspension, since that seems more about bad timing and your lawyers can figure that one out. You need to deal with how you ended up agreeing to hide here in the first place.”  
   
Richie isn’t listening at this point, his words responding more to the dream. "The roles are reversed now.  I _notice -_ this isn't about a stupid plan.  I shouldn’t have been so selfish… I want you to _notice_...”  Andy hears the pain in that last word and stands up to get a large towel then enter the shower. He sits down next to Richie on the wet floor and wraps him in the towel.  Richie doesn’t face him, burying his face in Andy’s shoulder as he says tearfully, “I messed up so badly. I’m sorry I messed you up too.”  
  
  



	10. Retribution

Several minutes pass, both still in the same position: sitting on the floor of a shower with Andy’s arms comfortably holding Richie in place.  Richie has his eyes shut, torn between enjoying this closeness and wanting to scream at feeling so weak.  His grip on Andy’s shirt has tightened but he’s not sure why he’s doing that.   
    
"I should have been paying attention," Andy says softly into Richie’s hair.  "I kept ignoring what you were doing, thinking you were just being lazy."   
    
"No.  It’s nothing…"   
    
"It _isn’t_ nothing.  Stop dismissing everything.  It is okay to react.  I can’t imagine what I’d do if I got suspended over something I didn’t intentionally do.  To go along with everything else…"  Andy stops, as if he’s just realizing their positions as well.  "Let’s get out of the shower.  I’ll meet you in the living room… we’re alone in the house so you should be okay there."  He absently gives Richie a light peck on his forehead then stands and holds his hand to help Richie up.  When he’s on his feet, Andy quickly turns his back, shaking his head.  "I’ll give you your privacy in the meantime."   
    
Richie throws on the clothes he’d laid out and heads the path to the living room but stops when he sees Andy approaching with a tray.  Richie can’t help but watch this, Andy the servant is too much.  There’s two cups – one a large teacup, the other a coffee mug – and several bagels, which Andy is having difficulty balancing.   
    
Andy snaps, "Don’t even say it," striding past and leading the way to the living room hurriedly so the tray safely makes it to the table.  "There was another cup of coffee in that pot so hopefully that will lessen the headache."   
    
Richie waits for Andy to sit down to say, "It’s so cute."  He’s rewarded with a cold glare which Richie laughs off before plopping down on the couch next to the Brit and stretching his legs out.  "Sorry, couldn’t resist."   
    
There’s a loud bang outside.  Andy debates whether to actually check.  It sounds as if someone ran into the garbage can – again.  The photographers are not very good at lurking, especially since they believe that Andy is alone in the house.  Andy turns on the television, it happening to be on a news program.   
    
While Andy had been rather warm just moments before, that sound has closed him off.  Richie cautiously asks, "How do you deal with that?"  Andy glances at Richie out of the corner of his eye, to which Richie gestures to the window and the outsiders likely on the other side.  They’ve gotten noisy so someone must have approached.   
    
Andy shrugs as if it means nothing.  "Everyone has pressure to win.  Mine is just louder and more desperate."   
    
"I cannot believe I’m saying this but Marat might have a point.  The press is getting to you."   
    
"No, they’re not."  Andy being stubborn is not a shock.  He glances at the two cups.  "They’re just a distraction.  I forgot the milk," then shoots up to head for the kitchen.   
    
Richie calls out, "Look, it’s okay to admit it’s an issue.  I can certainly relate to letting a country down."  He remembers there’s a very good reason he had stayed away from the living room, even when the house was quiet, and he’s hearing it clearly now:   
    
_"You know as well as I do that he’s not going to win.  He’s the second best in the tournament but I don’t think he’ll even live up to that."  
    
"I should be used to it after going through the Henman years."   
    
"The pictures are good money.  So what if I can’t stand rooting for him?  The longer he lasts, the more likely my daughter can go to art school in Paris.  Roger can win number 15, beating that Scot into submission, and everyone’s happy."   
_    
Andy returns with the milk, continuing on, "You haven’t let a country down."  Richie focuses on adding milk to the coffee but manages to roll his eyes at the same time.  "Okay, maybe you’re not France’s number one son right now, this is true.  The fact is that people do care about you.  The players definitely, those that know you have been defending you to the press.  A ringing endorsement for friendship – if you can hear it through the pity party you’ve been throwing yourself.  Then again, if it was Roger against me in the final, I wouldn’t doubt there would be a bit of revenge in my mind, either."   
    
While Andy is talking, Richie curls up on the couch with the mug.  He holds it under his nose, appreciating this brew.  He mutters under his breath, "Nothing has really gone as planned," figuring Andy wouldn’t hear it over his words.   
    
Andy wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrist, forcing him to look up.  Richie is about to apologize for that comment but is shut up with a tender kiss.  Andy doesn’t break away after, lingering near Richie’s mouth as he says, "This will pass.  Then you’ll be annoying everyone again."   
    
Richie gives a wry smile, then asks seriously, "Do you mind that I’m still here?"   
    
"Not at this point."  Andy is surprised to realize this is true.  It’s been a healthy distraction, even if they never actually accomplished the original plan.  Though Andy’s match scores haven’t been different, he’s surprisingly relaxed regarding this quarterfinal match.  However, to have Marat think he’s succeeded would just be wrong; let Marat gloat about _Mario’s_ ability instead.  "We _do_ need to annoy Marat some more.  It’s gotta be a flaw to his plan that Juan Carlos made the quarters."   
  
Richie chuckles.  "This is true.  Marat’s selling point to me was helping you win Wimbledon."  
    
Andy looks to the curtain, able to hear murmurs of the crowd, then shakes his head.  "Yeah.  It _is_ motivating to piss him off," but he sounds distant.  He blinks quickly, the mood passes, then says, "I heard your boxing skills leave much to be desired."   
    
"Kim has a big mouth.  I’m not as bad as what she witnessed."   
    
"I see.  I was supposed to go for a long run but I think I’m going to change the plan now that I have a sparring partner."   
    
Richie gives Andy a wary look.  "Do you mean bantering or boxing?"   
    
Andy pats his shoulder.  "I promise the bag won’t attack you this time."   
    
* * * * *   
    
When Marat sees Juan Carlos at his door, he already senses there’s trouble.   
    
"Good afternoon," Juan Carlos says, then barges in.  "Had a nice filling workout."  Marat didn’t need to be told that, the sweaty t-shirt and shorts making that clear.   
    
"Congratulations on yesterday’s win."  Marat watches carefully as Juan Carlos heads for the bathroom, taking his t-shirt off along the way.  "You’re using my shower?"   
    
"My jog ended here so yeah.  Sorry, should have asked but it’s not occupied, right?"   
    
"Of course not."  Marat approaches the bathroom but the door slams shut.  "If I’d realized you’d face Andy, I would have never helped him."   
    
"I don’t care about that.  How could you know that I’d have a run like you had last year?"   
    
"Oh."  Juan Carlos starts the shower.  Marat cautiously opens the door.  "You _are_ mad, though."   
    
"So I went to look for Andy Roddick regarding Mario.  Imagine my shock when he says someone _already_ approached him with questions regarding _Gasquet’s_ location and wonders how he became the go-to guy for the tour’s missing players."   
    
"He _is_ the usual suspect," Marat says, coming closer to the shower, taking off his clothes along the way.   
    
"No, you and Mario _made_ him the prime suspect."  Juan Carlos’ voice is sharp, taking Marat by surprise.  "Your damn clues and mind games."  Still, Marat is watching through the tinted glass, wondering who’s playing games this time.   
    
Marat deduces, "You never spoke to Roddick."   
    
"Mario looks _strange_ wearing Tommy’s gear," Juan Carlos supplies, then shuts the water off and startles Marat by swinging the shower door over and striding towards him.  "I don’t care that it’s Tommy.  This was just having fun at my expense.  Tommy _did_ go to Roddick.  That is true.  I was about to do the same before Mario stopped me."   
    
Marat backs up until he hits the wall.  He may be significantly taller than the Spaniard but that doesn’t help when he finally provokes that temper.  "What are you going to do?"   
    
"You won’t find out until after the match."  Juan Carlos gives an evil grin.  "I _should_ just strand you naked in the hallway but that’s no fun.  Besides, that would just lead to ‘oh that’s just Marat’, which – no.  You will not forget this."   
    
* * * * *   
    
"Why would you think this is a good idea?" Richie complains, trying to steady the bag.  He does know more about boxing than Andy realizes, thanks to hanging around Gael and Jo mostly, but he is not in the mood or the right physical condition to deal with this.   
    
"Would you rather I hit _you_?" Andy says casually, backing away and letting Richie regain his grip.   
    
"Of course not."  Richie pushes the bag toward Andy.  "It’s just that I can’t figure this is going to help you very much."   
    
"Maybe there’s more going on here.  Besides, you should be in better shape.  Don’t let those idiots ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for."   
    
Richie steps away from the bag.  "Are you serious?  No, this is to help _your_ path to the final.  I will not let you sacrifice this opportunity for me."   
    
"I’m not.  I could have done this alone but I’m not.  If I can keep you from moping in my room, it’s a nice bonus."   
    
"I could give you a workout of a different kind."   
    
Andy turns away but Richie can tell he's definitely contemplating that offer.  He shakes his head, insisting, "Not until after the tournament is over.  I’m staying in London for awhile.  Going for my driver’s license while getting back to training."  With Richie away from the bag, Andy takes one really hard swing, then says with a grin, "As for working out, I will wear you out either way."   
    
* * * * *   
    
In the back of his mind, Marat knows that Juan Carlos’ payback goes hand in hand with the outcome.  After all, if a miracle had occurred and Juan Carlos had actually beaten Andy, Marat figures he’d have been safe… well, at least for one more round.   
    
As it is, there was no miracle and Marat tries to determine what way he’ll attack.   
    
His cell phone rings, Marat barely able to get out a greeting when Juan Carlos says, "I’ll be there in about an hour."   
    
"Are you okay?" Marat manages to ask.   
    
Juan Carlos says, "I’m just tired.  It may not have been a long match but I am beat.  I’ll join you in bed but I want to sleep, okay?"  He hangs up before Marat can say anything more.    
    
Marat notes that there was nothing malicious in the Spaniard’s tone.  He mutters, "Looks like he’s going to wait a day before doling out punishment."   
    
Not five minutes later, his cell rings again.  Marat absently picks up this time.  "Hello?"   
    
"I miss you."    
    
Marat glances at the caller ID and does a double take.  He exclaims, "What the hell?  Are you drunk?"   
    
"Andy doesn’t need me."   
    
The Russian definitely regrets bringing that bottle of vodka to Andy's house that day.  "Richie, you listen good.  Andy is playing wonderfully…"   
    
"He won’t touch me.  I have been holed up in this house for nearly two weeks.  I felt more alive when you snuck in than any moment I’ve had with Andy."   
    
Marat covers over the receiver, in a state of shock and mouthing obscenities that he's surprised he can do without sound.  He shakes his head, then says into the phone, "You’re telling me that Andy hasn’t gotten laid this entire time?"   
    
"Believe me, I’ve tried.  He is cold to my advances.  All he is accomplishing is making me edgy and needing to get off.   I am lying on this bed, hoping that Andy will come in and rip my clothes off.  Reality is he will take one look at me and head to the rec room."   
    
"Andy cannot have that amount of willpower."  Then adds as an afterthought, "Speaking from experience, he does not know what he’s missing."   
    
"That’s what I keep telling him.  Does not listen."  Richie lets out a loud sigh.  "I need your assistance."   
    
Marat slouches down on the bed.  "What exactly do you need from me?"   
    
"Please help."  Then he adds in a low, sultry voice, " _Talk_ to me."   
    
"No way!  I am not having phone sex with you."   
    
"I understand you are back with Juan Carlos.  I’m not asking you to cheat on him.  Lend a hand.  Please?"  There’s some rustling in the background, then Richie says, "Okay, I’m settling in.  What would you want to do to him?"   
    
"I will tell Juanqui myself when he shows up."   
    
"Yeah but he’s going to be too tired to fulfill your needs.  He’ll just crawl up into bed next to you, making you so aroused…  That’s what Andy has been doing to me all this time and it’s driving me insane.  I think about when we were together…"   
    
"I am _definitely_ not drunk enough for this conversation."   
    
"You’d hover over me, stripping off your shirt then lingering on the button of your jeans, knowing that my eyes are focused there.  But instead of giving that full visual right away, you’d tease me about how hard I’d already gotten…"   
    
Marat hears the door click open at that moment.  Juan Carlos has that damn evil grin fixed on his face as he looks down Marat’s body, focusing on his dick.  Marat realizes that Richie has gotten to him.  He covers over the phone and says too loudly, "This is not what it looks like!"    
    
Juan Carlos strides over, snatching the phone from Marat’s hand, holding it up in the air as he asks, "Who has been trying to get you off?"   
    
"Nobody.  You’re the only one I want!  You have to believe me.  He’s just lonely and wanting my help."   
    
"I understand."  Juan Carlos nods, as if mulling it over.  "So you’re adding another man to your roster?  I haven’t looked through the injury report to see who’s available.  Nalbandian?   After all, Delpo lost early so _must_ need that extra boost."   
    
"No…"   
    
"Wait, I know.  You are summoning Gulbis.  Your little moody protégé."   
    
Marat shakes his head.  "I am sorry for making you feel foolish.  I shouldn’t have manipulated you."   
    
Juan Carlos smiles, then lowering the cell phone to his ear and says, "Thank you, Richie.  I appreciate your work," then snaps the phone shut.    
    
Marat’s mouth drops open, absolutely stunned.   He’d been blindsided by the easygoing Frenchman!  Of all the people involved, Richie was the last one he expected to trick him.   
    
"Believe it or not, that was all his idea.  Andy told me in the locker room after our match, asking if I’d support their payback.  I have to admit I was going to spend tonight thinking about something suitable so I was fascinated with whether their plan would have the desired effect for me."  Juan Carlos heads over to the dresser, searching through the contents until he finds a scarf and handcuffs.  "Ah, perfect."   
    
"So _did_ it?" Marat asks cautiously.   
    
Juan Carlos shrugs and walks over to the edge of the bed with the supplies.  He reaches out for Marat's hand, snapping one end of the cuffs on his wrist, then yanks hard to wrap the other around the bedpost and onto Marat's other wrist.  Marat studies how Juan Carlos is making a point of moving the phone away from his reach, the determined stare keeping Marat from asking questions.   
    
It is at this point that Marat notices that Juan Carlos came in with a plastic bag and what looks like a DVD case sticking out.  He's unsure how that would fit into any plan.  Juan Carlos pops the disc into the player and immediately pauses it before Marat sees anything.   
    
Juan Carlos lies down on the bed, his fingers close to Marat's fly and feeling how hard he's already gotten.  "Did you enjoy the French cuisine?"   
    
"I don't know what you're up to..." He looks up to find the scarf approaching his head.  Juan Carlos has folded the fabric so that it's impossible to see from once it is tied into place.   
    
"Remember I told you I enjoyed Italian cuisine?"   
    
"What does that have to do with anything?"   
    
Juan Carlos has the remote control in his hand.  "At the time, I wasn't sure what I'd do with this but I had recorded one particular outing with Simone.  He's a bit of a showman so was into the whole idea when I said it offhandedly one night.  Anyway, I figured you've never experience that particular accent so would appreciate hearing it once and for all."  He presses play on the remote and raises the volume, letting Simone's accent fill the room.   
    
Marat tries to listen carefully.  Simone is talking about a film they must have been watching.   So far nothing worthy of revenge.   
    
That is, until he catches the title of the film Simone is relaying.  "Were you two watching a porn flick?"   
    
"Watching and then acting it out."  Juan Carlos stands up, patting Marat's thigh as the Spaniard's voice comes through on the television.  Marat groans as he now realizes what Juan Carlos has planned.  Juan Carlos explains, "I have to admit that Simone has got rather excellent endurance.   So I hope you enjoy the experience.  The film lasts just about two hours."   
    
"I don't want to hear you having sex with someone else!" Marat yells, jerking from the bedpost then yelping in agony.   
    
Juan Carlos tries not to laugh as he says, "Oh, I think I have it on repeat.  Have a lovely night.  I will untie you for breakfast.  _Ti amo_."   
    
"I fucking hate you so much right now," just before the door slams shut and Marat is alone in the hotel room.  
  



	11. Favors

As soon as the door opens to the hotel room, Marat yells, "If you think I want anything to do with you after you remove the handcuffs, forget it."   
    
"I'll be sure to let him know," Mario says, trying to figure out what the hell he agreed to when he said he'd retrieve Marat for Juan Carlos.  Tommy wanders in, to see the television on with Marat blindfolded and handcuffed to the bed.  Tommy is trying not to laugh at the Russian's predicament, to no avail, but Mario is too busy averting his eyes upon hearing the word 'handcuffs'.   
    
"Oh, it's you and, someone laughing, must be Hasi.  Juanqui is a chicken?"   
    
"I suppose so."  Off Tommy's reaction, Mario dares a look. "I can see why."   
    
"That has been playing all night."  Marat bobs his head toward the television.  "Please tell me one of you has the key."   
    
Mario and Tommy exchange looks.  "No," Mario replies but does at least decide to remove the scarf.    
    
Marat blinks as his eyes adjust to the light, then sees the movie for the first time.  Sure enough, he spots Simone but Juan Carlos is nowhere to be seen, though the audio tells a different story.  He must be behind the camera.  "Can you _please_ shut that off?"   
    
Tommy grabs the remote and clicks the television off, then says idly, "I remember these handcuffs."  Mario turns around, shock written on his face, to which Tommy corrects, "No, it's not... okay, maybe it _is_ what you think but it was years ago.  The point is there's no key to these and, Marat, you should have remembered that since you're the one who'd been using them."  Tommy focuses on the handcuffs, having his hair fall in his face so Mario can't see his face turning red at the admission.  "Okay, Marat.  Relax your arms."   
    
Marat obliges, then Tommy reaches over Marat's body to push in the cuff and having it release.  Marat can finally see the pair that was in use and, Tommy is right, he really should have known how to escape even if it would have taken awhile to actually accomplish that.  "Thank you.  Now, where is he hiding?"   
    
"We're not supposed to say..." Mario begins.   
    
Tommy finishes with a wide grin, "But he is certainly _not_ in my hotel room, building a barricade out of Mario's textbooks."   
    
Marat rolls his eyes.  "Tell him he will have to face me eventually so it's not worth hiding."  He shakes his head.  "If he doesn't come back here before I leave London - and he knows exactly when that is - it's officially over.  For good this time.  You can quote me on that."   
    
Tommy chuckles.  "Yeah, right.  You say that every time you two break up.  You said that when we hooked up.  When you were Richie's rebound from the Roger situation.  When you..."   
    
"Oh shut up."  Marat is leading them to the door, a rush of words streaming from his mouth as his mind is now on payback, "Good luck in your match against Roger, if I don't see you before then.  Mario, very nice work indeed - I think he'll want to keep you on for the rest of the year.  Though you really need to work on your stories.  I don't buy your relaxation techniques for a second, Ancic."   
    
* * * * *   
    
Andy steadfastly refuses to let his defenses down.  This is a rather desirable trait when it comes to the tennis court.  Casual fans – and fellow players for that matter – think that Andy is cold.   
    
The problem with this is that Richie used to be unable to tell when Andy is pushed too far.  It explodes, as evidenced by their fight last fall or the words hurled last week.  When Richie first arrived, Andy had said that he needed to stay away from the Frenchman because he didn’t want to get hurt again.  That Andy had even _admitted_ that early in Richie's stay that he’d been hurt before was something Richie had only just noticed.   
    
Still, that is not the same as the way he presents to the interviewers.  A typical Andy interview is one in which he rarely smiles while the fiery intensity that appears on the court is nowhere to be found, making his voice sound monotone and, to the casual observer, dull.   
    
The morning of Andy’s semifinal match against Roddick, Andy had been excited.  He’d never been this close to winning this particular slam and it showed.  Maybe it was about the Queen announcing she’d rearrange her schedule, or the numerous commentators who thought this really was his time but there was a sense that this day could change everything.  Andy could claim all he wanted that the US Open title would be the most significant but that was a lie and today made that crystal clear.   
    
Too bad the match didn’t turn out the way he'd hoped.  It had seemed ready to go to a fifth set and then, suddenly, Roddick was the winner.  _His_ Andy lost.    
    
Maybe it was almost fitting, given the amount of torture Marat and Mario had inflicted by placing the American in the middle with the guessing games (not to mention how both Andy and Richie had knocked Roddick out in previous years at this tournament).  The crowd was quite appreciative of the performance but they know it means they must wait another year.   
    
Several hours later, Richie is making sure to stay awake to hear a commotion that would indicate a car pulling up.  The television is on but it is nothing but faint noise filling the room.  Richie isn’t focused on either that or the book he’s haphazardly been reading the entire time he’s been in this house, just the noise outside.   
    
Richie is amazed when he finally hears something at seven in the morning, soon followed by the back door opening.  There are two pairs of footsteps, then mild rustling, a door or two open and shut but no words exchanged.  It then is down to one person walking around.  Richie isn’t sure what’s going on so he figures it’s better to stay where he is until he can get a clue as to who has entered.   
    
Nearly a half hour passes before there is a soft knock on the bedroom door then someone sneaks in.  Richie sees a mop of red hair instead of the cleaner haircut so he lets out a cough to not scare the crap out of Jamie.   
    
Jamie mutters, “Thought you’d be asleep.”  He heads for Andy’s dresser to pick up a bunch of papers and a folder.   
    
Even though Jamie doesn’t appear to want to kill him anymore, Richie wonders if that’s only because it’s so early in the day.  Still, small talk is safer in this situation.  “Sorry about yesterday.  I thought you’d make the finals.”   
    
Jamie shrugs.  “I haven’t played well this year so that we even made the semis… then again, Liezel _did_ expect us to win so…  yeah, um, thanks.”  He fiddles with the papers, more focused on that than Richie when he says, “If you want to leave, I can sneak you out.  Andy probably won’t be back until tonight so you have time.”   
    
“How’s he dealing with everything?”   
    
“It’s tough.”  Jamie shakes his head.  “Even growing up, he would take the losses too seriously.  You want to shake him and make him realize it’s not the end of the world if he loses a match, even if the press says otherwise.  I mean, you push and push and eventually you’re going to crack.  Not everyone deals with the same problems the same way.  Both you and I have won Grand Slam titles in our home countries…”   
    
Richie understands what Jamie is trying to say but he can’t help but snicker at that particular similarity.  “That seems like ages ago in my case.”   
    
Jamie tries not to smile, realizing even within that context, their lives are very different.  “The point is he looks up to you.  Even now, for some inane reason.”   
    
It is something that Richie had thought but it feels weird to have that justified by someone else.  He knows what he must do, stating definitively, “I’m not going with you.”   
    
“Really?  I’m giving you an escape.  I will promise not to say a word en route!  Even if you’re heading to wherever the hell Safin is.”   
    
“I need to see Andy.  I do have to return to France but I’m not rushing out.  My flight isn’t until Tuesday morning and I’m not interested in changing the departure time.”   
    
“You planned to stay the entire two weeks?” Jamie says incredulously.  Richie shrugs in response, there never being a doubt regarding staying in England.  Staying _in the house_ had been the question mark.  “You are certain?  There’s a clear path to leave.”   
    
“How exactly could I make it past the photographers anyway?  You came alone so they’d notice if two left…” Richie stops talking as Jamie turns back to the dresser.  “No, wait.  You didn't come alone.  You had... security?”   
    
The longer it takes for an answer, the more Richie is certain it wasn't just anyone who entered with him.  Finally, Jamie admits, “I didn’t want you to feel you _had_ to deal with him.  They saw a driver enter the house before me, supposedly to check to make sure it was safe.  They never would have guessed that Andy was wearing that hat, having gotten practice in for his road test.  He’s in the rec room.”   
    
Richie inquires, “What changed your mind?”   
    
“We were alone in the car so I asked if you had influenced his play.  He said that he _wished_ you could be blamed because that would be so much easier than the truth.”  Jamie cringes, then admits, “I wasn’t going to tell you that unless you decided to stay.  The fact is he’s been around family and crew all night.  He’s alone in that room, no longer distracted from beating himself up.  Be careful.”   
    
Once Jamie leaves, Richie tries to decide what would be the best way to approach.  It takes some time to hit upon the correct answer but it isn't as if Andy will be making a move up here any time soon.  He gathers a few items and gets ready, then heads for the rec room.   
    
There is no noise in the room, just a pile of driver's clothes in the corner and a guy in a t-shirt and shorts staring up at the ceiling in confusion.  Andy has matured quite a bit in the last couple of years and usually hangs around a crew whose members are significantly older than him so it is easy to forget that Andy is not as old as he acts most of the time.   
    
What Andy really doesn’t need is for Richie to bring up the match itself.  Even though he must have heard the door open, Andy hasn’t acknowledged the sound.  Richie sets everything down on the mat and presses play.  It’s the same music they had danced to upstairs, hoping Andy is clued in that nothing he’s done in the last twenty-four hours has changed what could happen between them.   
    
Andy tilts his head Richie’s way, trying to piece together what’s going on.  Richie had also decided on the same outfit from that day: a since-cleaned dress shirt and the new jeans, noticing the effect it'd had on Andy then.  Andy tries to ask questions but the words aren’t there this time.  Richie approaches the couch and holds out his hand, asking, “May I have this dance?”   
    
Andy gives a perfunctory smile then reluctantly accepts help up.  Richie rests a hand on Andy’s hip and pulls him in close; any hugs or condolence will be pushed away but just dancing is perfectly acceptable.  Andy seems to give in to Richie leading the way because he's too tired to fight, but at least he _is_ giving in.    
    
The stiff posture eventually relaxes, eventually evolving into Andy resting his forehead against Richie’s shoulder, humming a tune that has no relation to the jazz music.  They have been in this otherwise comforting position for several songs before Andy hesitantly interrupts it to ask, “Do you enjoy teasing me?”   
    
“I’m not teasing you.  Just thought you’d want to relax.”   
    
“Does it matter that I didn’t give in?”   
    
“Andy, you never needed my help.  You are set to win a major eventually.  You knew I would interfere with your plan.  It cannot be helped if your opponent is suddenly in a zone.”   
    
“Maybe I didn’t need your help regarding my play but I do need you.”  Andy wraps one arm around Richie and fingers work on unbuttoning Richie’s shirt.  “I fucking need you to not mess with my head.  If you were only leading me on because of this fucking tournament, I will never speak to you again and will rip you to _shreds_ …” Andy sounds so close to breaking as he lets go briefly to make quick work of both of their shirts.   
    
“If I was really doing that, I wouldn’t be here now…” but he’s distracted as he realizes Andy is trying to get his jeans off.  Richie stills Andy’s hand and asks, “Are you sure…”   
    
“Yes, dammit.”  Their mouths smash together, Andy desperately not wanting to talk any more as he moves his hand onto Richie’s waist and walks backwards.  Andy guides Richie along until a heel hits the leg of the couch, then he sets a knee down so he’s now looking up.   
    
Richie cannot help but be captured by those pleading eyes, showing what Andy can’t say.  He says softly, “Don’t hesitate to speak up, okay?”  Andy nods, taking deep breaths while keeping eye contact.  Richie lowers Andy down onto the couch, a hand sliding down Andy’s thigh until fingers hit the hem of the shorts.    
    
Andy points behind him to the pile of driver’s clothes.  “In the pocket.”  At Richie’s confused look, Andy shrugs. “Rather not know.”  Richie reaches over to the pile while Andy undoes Richie’s jeans.  Andy pulls him down into a kiss while Richie works on ridding them both of any remaining material.   
    
Richie backs away to rip the condom out of the packaging and is heading to sheath Andy when something makes Richie stop.  Sure enough, Andy is shaking his head slightly and Richie gives an unsure grin. "Okay then," and slides the condom on himself instead.   
    
Richie has to admit he is unaccustomed to his current position.  He has been saying to Andy this whole time that he'd do whatever the Brit wants but it isn't until he started reading the quieter signals that he finally sees the answer: _Take control of the situation and stop letting everyone else get away with pushing him around._     
    
Once covered, Andy hooks a leg around Richie's waist while Richie fumbles with the lube and prepares him.  Andy tries to get him to stop but Richie snaps, "There's a distinct difference between pleasurable pain and severe pain."  Andy lets out an airy laugh but nods along.   
    
It would be nice to say that their first encounter was something earth-shattering but the sad truth is that it was a rush from that point to a too-quick conclusion and it's all a blur.  Richie has his head resting against Andy's chest, listening to his breathing even out.   
    
Until, that is, he's startled by a strange sound.  It sounds like a cough at first but it turns into laughter.  Richie uses his hands to raise his weight off of Andy to glare at him.  Andy's eyes are shut but he is definitely struggling (and failing) at not laughing.  "What the _hell_?"   
    
"I'm not... I'm sorry," but he's laughing louder now.  "It's not about this... well, it is but not that..."   
    
"You had better explain quickly because it isn't really a good sign to be laughed at right after having sex.  Especially _that_ kind of sex."   
    
"I'm not laughing at you specifically."  Andy holds a hand up to regain control of his breathing, then continues, "It's the buildup, all this time we've been around each other and having gone a year... and this situation!  There are all these reporters outside the house, Jamie is probably still milling around, my mum is going to _murder_ you because I'm sure she's figured it out by now but is keeping silent at the moment, two weeks of stress needing to get out...  it's all so fucked up."   
    
Richie smiles, then says, "Wimbledon is over.  Well, except for Roger and Roddick."  He stands up, looking down how relaxed Andy is right now.  Richie picks up the blanket from the pile he brought down.  "Jamie actually left so we have the house to ourselves.  I'm heading for a shower.  Care to join me?"  He unrolls the blanket and holds it as a cape for Andy.   
    
Reluctantly, Andy stands up and Richie wraps them both in the blanket before they head to the bathroom.


	12. Last Request

“Good morning, my dear,” Kim says when Richie enters the kitchen on Monday morning.  “You tired Andy out?”  
   
“He was just rising as I was leaving the room.  He'd been awake for about thirty-six hours straight before falling asleep so it’s not as if I wanted to disturb him.  I could answer you ‘yes’ but be misleading.”  
   
“Understood.  Got the coffeemaker going.  Have a feeling even Andy will go along with that this time.  Any plans for your last day in England?”  
   
“He was being mysterious about it but I know it involves having to be in the car with him.  Fortunately, he’s not driving this time.”  
   
“Yeah I heard that Jamie took one for the team by letting Andy behind the wheel.  That’s dangerous.  However, Jamie also said that Andy was better than he’d expected, given the lack of experience outside of empty parking lots.”  Kim fills three mugs from the pot then sits down.  "I must say, you look a lot better than you did when you arrived."  
   
Richie gives a shy smile, then says, "That's not exactly difficult, given I was drunk."  
   
"One, you looked terrible even _after_ you sobered up.  Two, I wouldn't disregard Marat so easily.  Why do you think he showed up here the second time?"  
   
"I wasn't returning his calls."  
   
Kim shakes her head.  "Let me ask you a different question.  Do you honestly think Marat cares about Andy's success on the court?"  
   
Richie shrugs.  "Marat likes to create excitement plus he thinks Andy is too uptight."  
   
"You know him better so that's probably all true but no... not what I meant.  What he wanted was to see his friend wake up.  You would have never listened to his advice... I think he figured there was unfinished business between you and Andy and that airing it out _might_ help you get past the problems and back to tennis."  
   
"You're giving him way too much credit," but Richie has to look away from Kim's satisfied smirk, which has him staring straight at Andy standing in the doorway.  Andy bites his lip to keep from smiling.  Richie says to him, "Good morning."  
   
Andy nods then heads over to the table.  He’s not really awake.  
   
Kim gestures to the mug, then asks Richie, “So you’re set up for tonight?”  
   
“Yeah. It makes sense to return to civilization before I deal with the hearing.”  
   
Andy’s voice sounds groggy when he adds, “After we get away from here, nobody will care where I am.”  
   
Kim says, “Be careful, Andy. I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of a circus…”  
   
“You won’t. I promise.”  
   
Kim glares over her mug at Andy, then mutters, “You don’t know that for certain but that’s okay. I’m already in too deep.”  
   
Richie says, “I should thank you for everything you’ve dealt with involving me the past two weeks. I’m sure I’ve been nothing but a pest…”  
   
“Well, yes. I will say that the next time I’m put in this position I will definitely say no.” Kim chuckles, then says, “You screw this up, you willhave to deal with Jamie _and_ Judy. You think _he’s_ tough…”  
   
“I would deserve whatever happens at that point.”  
   
Kim says warmly, “You are quite welcome.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
It is Monday afternoon when Marat hears a knock at the door.  Marat is not going to apologize.  No way, no how.  But the noise is getting to him so he’d better get up and answer.  After all, Dinara hasn’t left the country yet and he doesn’t need her anger.  
   
"Oh.  It's you." Marat lets out a loud sigh then steps aside to let Richie in.  "I should thank you for your stupid plan.  It cost me my relationship."  
   
"There have to be casualties."  Richie helps himself to a seat in the armchair.  
   
Marat checks his cell phone for the date.  "Wait.  You're at _my_ door meaning you're not at Andy's."  
   
“He's not in the tournament anymore.  No reason to be motivating him.”  
   
“Not that you were anyway.”  
   
“In your meaning, no, he never wanted that.  You haven’t seen Juan Carlos since he handcuffed you?”  
   
“He’s avoiding me."  Marat sits down on the bed, realizing that Richie is getting to his point for showing up and it would be wrong to dismiss him.  
   
"Would it kill you to simply admit that you're sorry?"  
   
"Yes," Marat says, deadpan.  "Now, moving on.  How did you get here?"  
   
"You knew I had to go back to France tomorrow.  I wasn't going to stay in that house forever."  
   
"What I mean is, how did you avoid the press?"  
   
"They were asking Andy questions about Roger getting number 15 and where would be the best spot for Roddick to drown his miseries."  Richie shrugs his shoulders.  "That worked as a diversion.  When Andy mentioned he was going for a driving lesson with his instructor, they were distracted so my identity wasn't given serious thought.  Probably assumed I was the newest member of his entourage."  
   
“That means you were in the car with Andy.”  
   
“That might be true.”  Richie pulls out his cell phone to read the text message he just received and smiles brightly.  “Actually he’s outside, bored and texting me.  One second.”  Richie makes a call and simply says, “Be patient.”  He doesn’t disconnect the call, holding the phone up as he says to Marat, “He says hi.”  
   
Marat says blankly, “You are a horrible person for conspiring with Juanqui,” then shouts for the person on the other end of the phone to hear, “So are you for discussing this after your match!”  
   
Richie shakes his head, trying not to laugh.  “Deep down, you do love him.  Everyone knows that.  It would be nice for someone to _hear_ it one in a while.”   
   
“Of course I love him.” Marat collapses back on the bed.  
   
Richie drops the phone to the side.  “Juan Carlos thinks you prefer manipulating everyone.”   
   
“I just want to help.”  Marat closes his eyes.  “People don’t think I’m capable of doing anything that isn’t selfish.  Do you know that, just a few months ago, Juan Carlos was considering retiring?  I think I inadvertently convinced him even though I felt he had more years in his game.  I couldn’t be happier that he’s gotten on this great run in England, of all places.  I didn’t want him to retire just yet.  He’s too good a player to do that.”  
   
“You’re not doing the same thing?”  
   
“I’m just tired.  I love him but I don’t want him to have regrets about leaving the tour too soon.  I have accomplished all I want to do and am at peace with my decision.  I haven’t been this relaxed in years.”  
   
Richie glances at the cell phone, hoping this is being heard.  “But you don’t want to blow your cover and admit that you’re only helping people instead of stirring up trouble.”  
   
There is a knock at the hotel room door.  Marat jolts upright, then glares at Richie.  “What the hell did you do?”  Richie looks toward the window, pretending to have no idea.  “You didn’t… Andy wasn’t the person on the phone.”  
   
“Maybe not.  This is our way of saying thank you for coming up with ridiculous ideas.”   
   
Marat rises from the bed and walks to the door, revealing Juan Carlos holding a bouquet of flowers.  Juan Carlos says, "That’s all I was looking for.  You can screw up as much of the tour as you’d like.  Just don’t play me for a fool in the process."  
   
“Flowers don’t work for you,” Marat cannot resist saying as he accepts them.  Richie tries not to agree but even he is surprised to see that gift.  He stands up, trying to figure out a way to escape without drawing attention.  
   
“No but that’s what I get for listening to Murray.  Who the hell knew _he_ would say that?”  Juan Carlos and Marat both turn to Richie, who is too stunned to remember he was about to leave.  “I still don’t understand what is going on in your brain but I guess Marat knew _something_ after all when playing matchmaker.”  
   
Richie finds it too difficult to deal with both of them together, so mutters, “Right.  I have to get going, find out what Andy has in mind for tonight.”  He walks toward the door but Marat stops him.  
   
“Our resident lawyer Mario says that you should be okay with the hearing… so after all this plotting, I had _better_ see you on the court and in shape before my retirement tour is over.  You understand me?”  Richie nods.  “Okay then.  Good luck.”  
   
* * * * *  
   
Richie steps out of the car, looks around, and says blankly, "We're at a tennis court?"  Granted, he would have never known it _was_ a tennis court; it looks like an abandoned warehouse from the main road.  Though he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if that's exactly the reason Andy chose this place.  
   
Andy replies, "That is correct."  
   
"Why are we… you preparing for Davis Cup?" But he doesn’t see anyone from Andy’s team around.  
   
"Not today.  We're playing."  Andy opens the trunk, which contains his kit.  "You can use one of my rackets."  
   
Richie follows Andy but this is _not_ the way to spend their last day together.  "This is a terrible idea."  The court itself looks okay, even if the walls have seen better years.  "Why would you want to be _here_?"  
   
"Because I want _you_ to be here, back on the court.  You want a rematch.  I _know_ you hate that I beat you last year..."  
   
"I'd beaten you several times before that day... but I'm not stupid enough to play against you when I haven't been training for a few months.  You tire me out when I'm at full strength."  Andy raises an eyebrow and chuckles, to which Richie turns away while trying to hide a blush.  "Get your mind out of the gutter!"  
   
"Too late.  In fact, if you go along with this, I will make sure your mind is there _every_ time we ever set foot on a tennis court again."  
   
"Excuse me?"  
   
"You have to play in order to find out what I mean.  Now, given your disadvantage, I will allow us to play halfcourt so this is all about reflexes.  In normal circumstances, you're the better net player anyway."  
   
"Sucking up is not the way to get me to agree."  Richie already knows that comment has Andy smirking so he relents.  "Fine.  I almost want you to get busted so you're forced to explain everything."  
   
"There's no need to worry.  I'll tell the press I'm doing charity work. It would even be true!"  
   
"Charity?  You bastard!" Richie shakes his head then glares at the laughing Brit as he growls out, "You're going down, Murray."  
   
* * * * *  
   
It is around dinnertime when Juan Carlos wakes up with a strange feeling coming over him. He attempts to turn onto his back and realizes there’s a hand flat against his stomach. He scrunches up his face and tilts his head to find Marat next to him, sound asleep and appearing peaceful.  
   
No fighting, no issues. Marat is so much easier to deal with when he’s quiet.  
   
Juan Carlos frees up one of his arms and gently touches Marat’s ear, stray hairs bristling against his skin.  They were used to throwing problems in each other’s way, which is how they landed at this point.    
   
He never thought that Marat would be appreciative of the flowers so he supposes he should thank Andy for that tip. Although he has to admit that Marat agreeing to use a gag during sex was a nice touch.  
   
Juan Carlos leans up to brush his lips over Marat’s then returns to sleep.  
   
* * * * *  
   
“That was absolutely _horrible_ ,” Andy says loudly as Richie glares coldly at him. They have been playing some version of tennis in this treacherous heat, those damn drop shots and lobs torturing Richie as badly as the taunting.  
   
“You are a horrible person and I _told_ you this was stupid. So, unless you have a point…”  
   
Andy teases, “What are you going to do? You have absolutely no idea where you are.”  
   
Richie walks off the court to the bench near the gear, not the least bit amused as he snaps, “This has been going on for over an hour, having to hear your voice... I need to be reminded how far behind I am?” He sits down on the ground next to the kit, takes off his baseball cap and throws a towel over his head.  
   
Andy walks over to the gear. “Remember I said I had something in mind?” The towel doesn’t move so Andy sits down next to him. “The loser does get a reward.” He drags the towel down Richie’s face and is greeted with a cold glare from the Frenchman. “So you can stop being so melodramatic and trust me.”  
   
Richie lets out a loud sigh, then says in an irritable tone, “Fine. Continue.” As an answer, Andy surprises Richie by pushing him so he ends up flat on the ground, then straddles him. Richie cannot help but chuckle when he realizes what Andy had in mind. “Loser gets a reward, I understand now. You’ve plotted this trip.”  
   
“There’s nobody around and, if I’m going to have my way with you, I prefer the tennis player version to the one who’s been brooding around my house.” Richie props himself up on his elbows, then maneuvers so he’s at nearly eye level with Andy.  
   
“You seem awfully convinced that’s how this will play out,” Richie says, unable to keep from smiling.  
   
Andy tilts his head, then declares, “Actually, I win either way,” as he tugs at the bottom of Richie’s shirt.


End file.
